Tuesday, November 9, 2010

About once or twice a year, at intervals unfettered by scheduling or calendars or other normal demarcations of time, I speak with my old man. Sometimes it’s over the phone, sometimes it’s over e-mail, and he might initiate, or the task may fall upon me. It’s not a traditional father-son relationship by any stretch, but it works for us. I’m apprised of crucial information, such as a rough approximation of which continent he currently calls home, and in turn I share the top highlights from my newswire.

Today was such a day, with a wholly unexpected e-mail awaiting in my inbox early in the morning, and after re-reading his message and my own reply, the similarities were just too uncanny. Cordial, high-level missives bereft of any sentimentality, maudlin or otherwise, and it was an exchange I valued. It got me thinking about family in general, namely whether it’s possible to ever truly escape your genetic mandate.

I’ve got the same high threshold for remaining incommunicado. Same affinity for corporate life. Same work ethic. Same love of speeding. Same, shall we say, conflicted opinions about our culture. The same propensity to game, even. He doesn’t partake nowadays, obviously, but I clearly recall the brutish-looking Intellivision sitting in front of the teevee on the carpet, along with a ratty red cardboard box, within which resided the original Pong.

Perhaps “escape” is too strong a word, but it just feels like it’d be a shame to fall back on these similarities and call it a day. The charge is to try to be more, to do one better. I’m afforded opportunities he didn’t have, and failing to take advantage of them would be criminal, in a way. Did he vow the same thing about his dad, I wonder? I bet he did. Call it a hunch.