Dad.

My father passed away this weekend, and I wanted to share a few thoughts.

When my father could think of nothing to add to a funny or odd moment in a conservation, he’d let out a sarcastic “Nothing but the best.”

When a drunk guy on the street swore at us and made lewd gestures as we walked to get dinner in Cleveland one night, he looked over and said nothing but the best. When I showed him a particularly insane clip from Wondershowzen he liked, nothing but the best.

It was rare, however, that he had nothing to add, argue, or joke about when talking to me.

The last time I was able to have a long conversation with my dad, he told me he thought his personal knowledge base had a few spots of depth but that he didn’t know much. It was a rare moment of self-pity, one I felt was unearned since he was a person who knew a lot about everything. I challenged him. I began listing stories he told me about writers, actors, politicians, about history and economics. He knew about petty arguments Joni Mitchel had with her managers in the 60s. He explained the 2008 financial crisis to me in under a minute (likely during one of his furlough days when the government was shut down). He taped avant-garde short films on VHS so we could watch them together on the weekends. That’s how I ended up seeing Maya Deren’s “Meshes of the Afternoon” before entering high school, let alone a film course. His favorite short was “Down Rusty Down,” an Australian black-and-white comedy from 1997 where humans play various dogs in a neighborhood. We watched it for the first time together but he asked me 50 times over the last few years if I’d ever seen it. I wanted to scream every time that I was there with him for his entire indie cinema phase! Our shared movie viewings started when I was a child when he forced me to watch All That Jazz and Die Hard (inappropriate movies to watch with your kid) and ended around 2001 when we watched Y Tu Mama Tambien (an inappropriate movie to watch with your parent). It made me feel better that he didn’t even remember I was with him on this art house movie rabbit hole because it meant he liked it on his own, whether his kids did or not. He liked paintings, he hated musicals, he liked cooking and got better from my middle school years on. He subscribed to specific guitarists’ Patreon pages during the lockdown and watched his favorite musicians explain how they wrote old songs.

When my grandfather died, my brother told me what he thought makes a great dad. “It’s doing stuff you don’t want to do for your kids.” This was before he had kids of his own. He seems to enjoy attending as many of my nieces’ volleyball games as he can.

What my brother meant was that the sign of a good father was the ability to engage in your kids’ interests rather than strictly engaging in your own. Our dad was not a basketball player, but I have memories of him teaching me in our driveway how to box out. When my brother decided to become a CPA, my dad took accounting classes online so he could understand what my brother was talking about when he visited. He came to every play I was in from the age of 6, including shows I did in college that were, I’m sure, not to his taste. He gave notes on scripts and stories I wrote, he played guitar with me, he helped brainstorm ways to get an agent with me. He would preface each piece of advice with “I don’t really know how any of this works” and then make cogent, informed arguments about what I should do next. He treated every interest his kids and grandkids had like a hobby of his own.

When he was not busy being a dad, cheering in the stands of a football game or clapping in the audience of a play or in the kitchen making dinner for his wife and kids, he was reading, exploring, and finding tolerable classical music to listen to and share with all of us. He didn’t merely love the act of reading, he liked fiction specifically. He liked finding out about the craft of writing. He worked on novels and stories of his own after retirement. He liked comedy. His knowledge of it was specific and enigmatic. After taking a few pictures at the house of my friends and our homecoming dates, he asked where we were taking the girls for dinner. “Buca di Beppo,” I said (because I know how to treat a lady), and my dad said “oh, that’s where Phil Hartman’s wife got drunk for hours before going home and shooting him.” “Thank you, Dad. That’s a great icebreaker.”

When I got into stand-up myself, he pitched me jokes and essay prompts via email, even when he was ill. His last email to me was to let me know he thought a big break was approaching for me and that he and my mom did not sit up at night worrying that I couldn’t make it in comedy. "We have faith in your work and talent.”

One day, inspired by some mystery itch that came from no one in his family, my father started digging a hole in the backyard. He read through a tiny yellow pamphlet on how to build a pond, and with no help (certainly not from his kids, and before the days of YouTube), he made a mosquito-free pond in our yard. He put in fish that survived winters, he put in tadpoles that became frogs and hopped into neighbors’ yards. One morning, he came outside and discovered a giant crane hunting one of his frogs. He’d made an entire ecosystem thanks to one afternoon of reading and following through on a whim. 

That’s what I’ll remember about him. Not strictly the things he did his damnedest to enjoy for us, but what he enjoyed.

He was married to my mother for 49 years. He studied city planning and managed to find work in his field. He focused on fighting for affordable housing and revitalizing neighborhoods including Ohio City where we lived for most of my teens. He was a good dad because he engaged in the stuff his kids and wife liked even when he disliked it (that included moving from the city to the suburbs for a time). But he was a great dad and friend because he managed to get me interested in what he liked. He took the time to listen, to watch, to talk. He let me know how much joy he took in his work. He let us know how much he loved being a dad and grandfather.

When I think of what he could have done better, I can’t come up with anything to say. He gave us nothing but his best.