My father could slice a hot dog so that it remained one whole piece, but would lay* flat in a frying pan. It was an amazing, creative feat -- and he's the only one I ever saw do it.
Unfortunately, while I always loved the way he did it, I never asked him how he did it. I admired. I didn't learn.
And now, of course, I can't.
Fathers, grandfathers, next-door neighbors, all the men in our lives who matter, have talents that run from cooking to carpentry, from maintenance to magic. This weekend, pay attention to the men. Listen and learn. And Happy Father's Day to Tom, Bud, Neil, Bernie and all the CI dads!
*It's late and I can't find my AP Stylebook. I think it's lay and not lie. I must find my stylebook. My brain can't remember everything. And that's no lie.
Full disclosure: My father was manic-depressive, so I spent most of my life avoiding conversations with him. It was a logical defense mechanism: I never knew which words would come back to haunt me later. Still ... I miss the hot dogs.