I’m a big fan of superhero movies. There is something so compelling about a larger-than-life figure who can leap tall buildings, deflect bullets and never be crushed.
In almost every child’s life, there is the original hero, and he is bigger and fuzzier than Mom, and often has the aroma of aftershave. His voice is deep and gruff, and sometimes that can scare a little kid, but he also gives an excellent bear hug.
Of course, it is none other than Dad.
My own father did not dress like superheroes do with their capes and masks. He preferred Bermuda shorts and no-iron shirts to withstand the harrowing heat of Miami days. He could not leap tall buildings or dodge bullets, but he was darn good at chasing the monsters that stalked our Miami home.
They were not the dragons kids read about in storybooks but were instead tropical flying roaches — known in our home simply as big bugs.
If you have ever wanted to see a family of somewhat overweight people move at a lightning-fast clip, just release a gigantic flying insect in the house and let her rip. Whenever one of these creatures invaded our humble home, my mother, sister and I went screaming in search of our hero — who was, of course, Dad.
He would calmly grab a broom and run headlong for the airborne monster, while the rest of us cringed and whimpered in fear.
Despite his heroic abilities, my father wasn’t a typical guy. He didn’t care much for watching football, and he was not great at fixing things. Still, he did know how to shake loose coconuts from our palm tree and crack them open with hammer and screwdriver — and he was the only one in the family who wasn’t afraid to scale a ladder to change a light bulb.
My life changed quite a bit when I headed off to the University of Florida, where for the first time in my life I was no longer under my father’s roof.
I prided myself on being a modern, liberated woman, but when one of those blasted bugs started winging its way toward me in the dead of night, I panicked and wished my dad was there to rescue me. And when my money ran out, as it usually did, I could count on him to send a check.
We didn’t always see eye to eye. I was about as far left as you can go, and he leaned to the right. I wanted to dispense with traditions, and he yearned to preserve them.
Now that I am nearly the same age he was when he died, I understand him so much better. I can’t sit down and have a long talk with him, so on Father’s Day, I plan to do the next best thing.
I’ll say a prayer for him and thank him for all the times he saved me. Some days as I stumble along in life, I picture him up in heaven continuing to do just that. And even if he didn’t wear a mask and a cape, that makes him a real hero in my book.
About the Author
