Fulcrum

I was drawn to the front page of today’s newspaper by a beautiful photo of a 70’s dad holding his newborn daughter in the palm of his hand.  The headline reads “Who helped get her through the glass ceiling?”  I couldn’t get my coffee fast enough, so I could hit the patio and prepare to be engrossed in all sorts of good advice about how to get to the top. 

It then dawned on me that today is Father’s Day, and this story is about dads.  The cynic inside griped that when your dad owns the company, there really isn’t any glass to break:  A sneeze, and you’re in.  But I read the article anyway and was moved to tears by the stories successful businesswomen share about how dad’s love has given them the confidence to be themselves and get where they want to go.

A few pages more, and I was into a columnist imploring that we all write letters to our dads today, whether we send them or not. Writing thoughts down, she asserts, helps us get clear.  Amen to that.

My dad is easy going, with a quiet sense of humor.  He has an unbelievably calm temperament.  It’s impossible to tell what he’s worrying about beneath the surface.  All I know is he’s solid as a rock. 

My financial planner would probably describe Dad as wealthy, although, growing up I would never say we were rich.  From my vantage point he’s appeared to exhibit a lifetime of fiscal responsibility, putting five kids through private school and college.  There was such pride in his eyes, the day I became his first child with a college degree. He’s comfortably retired, definitely a no-frills guy, who is content and wants for nothing material. 

Dad is tenacious.  He quit his Camel cigarette habit in his 30’s, after ceaseless hounding from his children.  He put himself through college while the sole breadwinner of our family of seven.

Stories his brothers tell about his youth always include the comment that he would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.  I watched him lovingly and selflessly nurse three women to the end of their lives – both of my grandmothers and my mother.  These ladies loved him in their own ways, of course.  But what stands out in particular is my maternal grandmother’s relationship with him.  She’d raised my mother, an only child, mostly on her own.  You could just tell she was pleased and grateful every day of her life that my mom had the good fortune to find such a dependable, loving man.  She obviously adored my dad, and her reference to him as her “favorite son-in-law” was a light reminder of the deep esteem she held him in.

My dad has always let me go.  I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when I left home to move to California to live with my boyfriend.  Tears welling up, he told that guy to take care of me.  Years later, when I realized boyfriend hadn’t lived up to his promise to Dad, I also understood that Dad predicted that might happen and let me make the mistake anyway.

Dad has always impressed on me his belief that taking the job no one else wants is a good move.  This advice I’ve followed to my benefit. He is spot on in forecasting the benefits that come from doing a dirty job well, that it is more about building a reputation to draw on in the future, than the actual work itself.   

He also is the fuel in my drive to earn my worth financially.  When I think about giving up on the money, because it’s too exhausting to continue the fight, I can hear the fire in his voice at the thought that his daughter is being taken advantage of or unjustly denied what she deserves. I fight for myself because he fights so hard for me.

And in my darkest times, he is always there for me with a calm voice and a way that allows me to gracefully pick myself up, dust off the dirt and move on.    

Maybe I was mistaken about the headline in today’s paper.  Dads help us break the toughest glass of all, our personal glass ceilings, so we can take on the world. 

Thank you doesn’t seem like enough.