The first time I ever saw my dad cry, I was eight years old. It was Father’s Day. I had made sandwich boards out of construction paper tied with yarn and placed them over the backs of our two unwilling toy poodles, Muffy and Paddy. One sign read HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! The other announced PRESENTS ON THE COUCH! I opened the door to the bedroom where he was sleeping and shoved in the message mules with clear instructions to prance in front of him. Instead, they immediately scurried under the bed and ruined the whole grand parade. I don’t remember the present I gave my dad, but it made him cry. This fascinated and scared me at the same time. I had never seen my father cry before. I didn’t know he could. Whenever I cried, he would hold me, and I would breathe in his scent, a mixture of Aqua Velva aftershave and Brylcreme. His brown eyes would meet mine, and he’d stare into a miniature version of his own face. I felt safe. But he seemed too big for me to hug him like that, so I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I asked what was wrong. “You make me so happy,” he said.
I’ve seen my dad cry only four times since: when I was 16 and planned a surprise birthday party for him, when my mother died, when I got married, and the last time in the middle of dinner while he was telling a story about work. That time he cried the most. Each time this took me by surprise just like the first time. He seemed to be caught off guard too. It’s rare to catch an F.B.I agent with his guard down. Read more (Under Features/Essays).
Standing with my Dad just before getting to ride in the Good Year Blimp, a goal he had ever since childhood. I was so happy to help him achieve it at age 82!
