The day was winding down, and for whatever reason—possibly the afternoon showers that roll-in like clockwork during every Florida summer that contribute to the early-evening doldrums that so many Floridians experience—but I found myself ruminating on a day in elementary school.
It was 1995, and my family had just relocated to Orlando from Atlanta. Being the new kid in class, I was looking for ways to ingratiate myself with my classmates. As a shy ten year old, I wasn’t exactly the best at making friends, so I did what a lot of kids my age would do: I recruited my Dad to help.
My class was hosting a ‘bring your parent to school day’ where parents would come in and discuss their careers. My dad wholeheartedly volunteered—unfortunately, the parent presenting before him just happened to have the coolest job on the planet. My dad followed a classmate’s firefighter father by enlightening a fourth-grade class about the basics of annual percentage rates and appreciation values. He powered through it, realizing that the principles of credit card responsibility were falling flat after the tales of heroism that preceded him.
Watching a floundering presentation is normally extremely uncomfortable: but I remember feeling tremendously proud. Proud of my dad for knowing that the ins and outs of his chosen career would not resonate with a group of children, but having the willingness to help.
I sat on my porch and reflected on that day as the storm clouds draped the Orlando skyline, and how it was a microcosm of my entire relationship with my dad. He is the epitome of the supportive parent, regardless of circumstance. I am incredibly blessed to have him in my life, and the moments I get to spend with him are never taken for granted.
Happy Father’s Day, Pops. I’m honored to call myself your son.