Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Happy Father’s Day, gents!
This is scheduled to go out in tomorrow’s Nighthawk, and Wednesday’s newspaper, but…Here’s a toast to you on this special day. I hope you enjoy it.
Late Night Radio–With Josh Urban
A Belated Father's Day
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! I listened for the growl of a dump truck through the sunny morning. Birds. A few cars. The bullfrog out back. Nothing. It felt like June proper, but not enough to push the hat back and predict a scorcher. That'll be soon enough. I sat on the steps and waited, and thought about Father's Day.
Dad had a newsboy hat. He still does, but it's not the same as the tan one from ages ago. I had one that matched. Kids will dress up as policemen for Halloween. The costume has a hint of a real cop: authority, respect, heroism if need be. When I put the hat on as a little boy, maybe it was the same thing–a bit of the Dad mystique by association. Whatever it was, it made me proud. It still does.
The growl rattled through the hot morning, breaking my train of thought, and the dump truck rolled up. I jumped up. Waved. Hadn't seen him since last year's house build. Grabbing the iron, I climbed up to the window. It's not cool to admit on the job site, but the best place in the whole world is hanging off the steps of a truck and shouting over the diesel roar. Little boys pretend with wagons and bikes. The real thing is ten times better. “Howdy, sir! Can you put the gravel right by that empty bottle? ”
“Sure, wave me in.”
So I did, and he did, dumped the whole thing and slammed the gate on cue. The clang put ripples in the June soup of a day. Dump trucks always make the right sounds, careful musicians of the soundtrack to Everyday. The rest of us stand around, waving like conductors. And like conductors, there's a knack to the waving. (Poor fellow with the trailer a few weeks ago. My apologies, sir.)
The driver handed me the receipt. I told him we'd be calling him again soon. “My stepdad needs some gravel by the shop around the corner. Keeps turning to mud.” The driver remembered the site. I asked his advice, and he gave it, with a few ideas on the water and right kind of gravel. People around here are nice (and know their stuff). “You got any kids, man?” I asked.
“No.”
“I don't either. But I'm writing a piece to wish all the guys who build the world a happy Father's Day.”
“Hey, you too.” The truck lumbered back into the June soup. I went back inside, still thinking about dads, and brewed coffee from Tom's place downtown. The note on the counter read “Call Jim”, the guy who taught me most of what I know about astronomy. The house still feels new. Bob and John and Tony and Dan and Steve and Tim and Kenny and David and Matt and Austin and Sam and all the other guys did a bang up job on it. I'd be living in a box if it wasn't for them.
These guys do such a good job that it's easy to forget life isn't automatic. But I almost rolled my stepdad's mini-excavator last week because I made a mistake. Things are harder than they look. He's got great faith and patience, letting me borrow his skid steer to finish the driveway this afternoon.
So here's a toast to all the men who build the world, kids or no–a toast to those who wear the real hats, who do the hard stuff, who encourage, lead, protect, inspire, listen, bring along, raise the bar in bits so we can clear it, but still have to try. Where would we be without you guys?
Happy Father's Day, Dad. Happy Father's Day, gents.
For those who rock, we salute you.
–Josh
Send letters and cheap ties to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban
“Don’t smile. It’s a sign of weakness. Hey, did you hear the one about the seagull?”