Sanwiches and Good Parents

The other day I was in the grocery store picking out tomatoes when I realized I am my father’s son. I didn’t realize it that weird way when you are 18 and you say something that just slips out and then you cry, “NO!” because you realize it is exactly what your mom or dad would have said in that same situation. This time it just made me smile.

My dad likes sandwiches. On the farm, us boys used to help out during the summer while it was school holidays. At noon we would head back to the house for lunch (usually while listening to Paul Harvey!). Sometimes mom would cook but so many of the meals were sandwiches. Not meat and bread sandwiches but Dagwoods, with thick cut tomatoes that dripped onto your napkin with every bite you took and the napkin by the end. Come to think of it, my dad should have a show on the Food Network showing how to make homemade French fries and sandwiches. It would be a hit.

So there I was, in the produce section, hand-selecting the expensive tomatoes. You know, those vine-ripened ones from the hot house that cost twice as much as the other varieties. Then it hit me, this is what dad does, buys these same tomatoes, because only the best tomatoes should be on a sandwich. Here I was doing exactly the same thing because I missed sandwiches so bad in Malaysia.

My parents have had huge impacts on my life. I had both of them as teachers and as I pursue teaching as a career, I can’t think of finer examples to follow. My mom was teacher of the year last year and the hours she puts in are amazing. If only those kids knew the number of nights she falls asleep grading papers in front of the TV.

I had my father for world history and algebra one, so my memories of his class are much stronger. I had such a poor high school education and his classes stand out as one of the bright spots. I still know the Vietnam War, from the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution to the Tet Offensive to Operation Rolling Thunder and General Westmoreland because of my father, not because of a great university class.

I told a friend yesterday one person I admire in history is Hannibal Barca (not the fictional mass murderer, the general from Carthage). “Your weird,” he said. I still remember mom and dad helping me with that sixth grade term paper on Hannibal. If I’m weird he can blame my parents.

As I watch my friends raise their two-year old daughter, I see them striving to be good parents. But I want to tell them they already are good parents. No parent is perfect, even mine weren’t. Good parents try, they spend time with their kids, they share experiences, they ask for help. What a hard job, where the object of your affection may never, ever turn to you and thank you for all those days you worked so they could have a better life.

Thanks mom and dad, for sandwiches and so much more.