Dear Dad: Apologies of a wayward son

Dear Dad, Despite the many spanking incidents that we have enjoyed together over the course of my childhood, you have been a pretty good father. With those spankings in mind, and the Father’s Day holiday just ahead, I have decided to write this letter of apology because, let’s face it, Pops, you aren’t getting any younger and this opportunity might soon escape us.

Yes, I know, as an often wayward son I have a lot to apologize and atone for, like the four times I broke my younger brother’s collarbone -- once as a scientific experiment involving gravity, once while playing football, once after watching WWE “wrasslin’” and once out of general meanness. But in my defense, dear Dad, poor bone density on the victim’s part also played a factor. The kid should have drank more milk.

Atonements should also be made for the general mayhem, mischief and bullying associated with the typical American childhood -- burying the other brothers alive, urinating in a sibling’s lemon-flavored Popsicle, and dissecting (without written medical consent) one of your best laying hens for a biology class experiment. In my defense, Pop, I was planning to dig those boys back up come suppertime.

And, of course, I am sure a heart-felt “I’m sure sorry, Dad” is in order for my entire teenage era, from my brief criminal career and incarceration, to staying out late and making you worry, to putting dents in your truck, to running around with that girl with the bad reputation and the tattoos who took all my money and eventually got my new car repossessed, which ruined your credit. But in my defense, Dad, the girl did have tattoos and a bad reputation.

However, I think the most heartfelt of apologies should be reserved for those occasions when I deliberately and heartlessly slandered your reputation and caused you personal injury. Unfortunately, two specific incidents do come to mind.

Flashback 40 years and I’m a kid sitting in a deer stand beside you. It is my first real hunt and I was excited. I recall your large, calloused hands draped over the well-worn Winchester, your favorite hunting vest, your faded overalls, your snores coming from beneath your hat as you made me keep a watchful eye out for the deer while you napped.

OK, you didn’t always nap: sometimes you read paperback Westerns while I kept lookout. But I took my responsibilities seriously. No pair of young eyes ever kept a keener watch for whitetails. No pair of perked-up ears ever tuned more closely to the sounds of the hounds. And no pair of blabbering lips ever lied as much as I did that day, when I later told the other men that while you were passed out from the excitement of reading a tawdry and steamy Harlequin Romance novel, I was really the one who killed that nice buck.

Sorry about that one, Dad.

This brings us to my most heinous of offenses and, Dad, if you haven’t forgiven me for this one, I can’t say that I blame you.

Puberty had arrived and your little boy was quickly becoming a man and exploring his curiosity of the opposite sex. He was also exploring in your workshop without permission and found your secret stash of vintage Playboy magazines, an exquisite collection featuring bombshells of the 70s and 80s like Suzanne Somers and Dolly Parton. Such a collection as that today would be very valuable in a lot of ways, and no doubt took you years to accumulate.

Such a collection that also fit nicely under the mattress of my bed, as I expanded my knowledge with the thought-provoking articles and short stories such magazines are known for. Until the tragic day when Momma found them, that is.

Imagine the outrage and disappointment my mother felt that day. (Sorry, Mom, but it’s not Mother’s Day so we will get around to your apologies later.) Imagine my embarrassment and shame when Momma made me take each and every glorious, full-color page and rip it to pieces right in front of her before throwing it all into a trash bag, my ears ringing with a blistering lecture about the sin of lust and my lack of respect for women.

And I can just imagine how you felt, Dad. As Momma made me destroy each and every issue, I looked over her shoulder and observed a single tear run down your face. Your prized collection shredded to pieces -- and you dared not say a word or speak up to claim it.

I’m sorry about that one in particular, Dad.

So, in honor of Father’s Day, my gift to you is the knowledge that not only am I atoning for all my many childhood indiscretions, I have learned something useful and positive from each and every one. Thank you for that, Dad. And Mom, I have learned to respect women.

But if you are looking for something in the way of a tangible gift this Father’s Day, I do have a lot of extra fishing tackle in my tackle box and nearly every tool you can imagine in my toolbox, if you need something.

Most of them I stole from you, by the way. Sorry about that, Dad.