One of life’s universal truths is we all turn into our parents as we get older. It’s half fascinating, and half horrifying to watch it happen to you. You can argue all you want about nature versus nature, but in the end it’s a combination of both — you get their DNA, and you spend the better part of your first two decades on the planet watching them work up close.
Sunday was Father’s Day, but instead of spending the day with my dad, I ended up working all weekend. I was at Iowa Speedway covering the first two races of the season. Dad isn’t really a NASCAR guy, but he’s got more in common with the the drivers than he realizes.
Dad’s always had his things, and one of his favorite things to do is drive around. He doesn’t make circles on a racetrack, his routes are always in the neighborhood. As a kid, my brother and I spent with hours with Dad, driving through new housing developments, industrial parks and down dusty gravel roads. We’d seldom stop, cruising down the new streets in our rapidly developing neighborhood on the west side of Des Moines. By the time they’d laid the sod and pounded the “for sale” sign into the ground, Dad had probably driven by each house a dozen times.
When he started selling trees from his wholesale nursery, it added a new component to the routes. He kept a mental list of every tree he’d sold over the years, and he’d often spend hours driving past their new homes, checking to make sure the new owners were taking good of the trees.
Even on family vacations, Dad kept to his routine. We spent a week every spring in Florida, and Dad would inevitably carve out a few hours to make his rounds, driving past the same local landmarks year after year. He kept track of all the little changes, a new sign at the pizza place on old Highway 41, marking each new business that sprung out of Florida’s marshy interior into his mental Rolodex.
Stadiums were a particular high water mark for Dad, even though we’d seldom attend a game. Back before everyone had GPS and a pleasant woman who lived in your phone to guide your every turn. We’d plot our way to these towering temples of sport, only to drive around the the parking lot before heading on our way. As a kid, I distinctly remember paying a visit to the Orange Bowl after flying into Miami one spring, mostly because we stopped afterward to see the Atlantic Ocean. We didn’t stay at the beach long, my brother found a used syringe in the sand, which led to my mother insisting we put our shoes on and head to the car immediately.
In fact, I can only remember one time we actually went into a stadium. On a trip to Ohio to see Mom’s best friend, we stopped at Notre Dame University. My dad, a lifelong Presbyterian, and semi-occasional sports fan, wanted to go outside. The rest of us were convinced it was hopeless, but dad wouldn’t be deterred. We walked around the building, trying every single gate, until we ran into a maintenance guy on the far side of the building. Lying through his teeth, my dad told the maintenance man we drove all the way from Iowa just to see the stadium, wouldn’t it be possible to get inside and take a quick look around?
Unbelievably, he let us in. We walked toward the field as the maintenance guy gave us an impromptu tour, pointing out the towering figure of “Touchdown Jesus” on the side of the nearest residence hall. He even let us onto the field. My brother and I had our own “Rudy” moment, sprinting from the 50-yard line into the end zone. As we walked down the steps from the locker room, each of us reverently touched the famous sign over the door, reminding us to “Play like a champion today.”
Like Dad, I like to drive around. When I’m feeling stressed or restless, I’ll grab my car keys off the counter and head out into the city. Sometimes I’ll try to justify it by telling myself I need to buy gas, but at the station across town, out by my parent’s house. I’ve got my own routes, sometimes I’ll drive by all the different places I used to live, or places I used to work at. But most of the time I’m “just cruising and playing the radio, with no particular place to go.” Just like my dad.
Contact David Dolmage at
ddolmage@newtondailynews.com