2014.03.15 Perceived Convergence

Hey Dad.

It's a full moon out. I'm up, lurking, while my family sleeps. Did you ever do that?

The house is full of LEGO creations. It's kind of awesome watching your grandson become a little Maker, like me.

He has such strong feelings. It's almost too much to bear just witnessing him having them. Was that how it was like for you with me?

I enjoy semi-mythical status at work, just like you did. Except that I never developed your ability to socialize, and it makes me wonder if I misunderstood how you operated. I spent the longest time thinking that you tapped into that dimension of easy interaction you and other popular hominids exist in, and bent reality so that everybody liked you even though you were snarky and blunt. But people like me because I'm snarky and blunt, and honest and helpful. Did I fail to notice that about you and your friends? All that time you spent quietly reading, and driving, and hiking... were you actually an introvert, like me?

I'm without a sports car at the moment. It feels odd, but appropriate - for now. And I recall that you stopped having sports cars when I came along, too. For a while. I can still remember the little red MG you worked on so that you could finally sell it, and how I asked: why? Why can't we keep this and instead of the Volvo sedan? My little sister and I could fit in the back. Did you smile wearily at me?

You should see your granddaughter; she's got your lower lip and your stubbornness. She's demanding and willful and dauntless. She's like all my favourite parts of you and my Grandma Castle packed into a little ginger snap. I fear that's how Melissa started out, too.

Do you remember that great motorbike of yours? The Honda CX-650, that you let me ride to high school, and then gave to me after graduation? I think about it a lot lately. I've been able to refrain from succumbing to the bike lust for over a decade now, thanks to my wariness of those seductive sport bikes. Especially here, in the land of low-budget roads and too many cars. I recall your self-denigrating tale of test-riding some crotch rockets, and deciding to resist them because you know they'd kill you. But then you got the Honda, because it was sane. I find myself contemplating a sane bike, too. To sate the inner demons.

People assume that the bike is an echo of the lost sports car(s). We both know they're wrong. It's different. I've tried explaining the difference to several different people, but I suspect that you might be the only one to fully grok it.

They say we tend to turn into our parents. Thanks for being awesome, Dad.