This must be the place: Goin’ places that I’ve never been, seein’ things that I may never see again

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This must be the place: Goin’ places that I’ve never been, seein’ things that I may never see again

Frank and his beloved dog, Madison. (photo: Garret K. Woodward)

It was a matter of $50 when my father finally relented to his birthday celebration. In the depths of The Classic Wineseller in downtown Waynesville on Saturday evening, several friends and family came together to celebrate the old man — aka: “the curly wolf,” better known as Frank.

Knowing damn well that his favorite wine is the Silver Oak cabernet sauvignon, I waved him over to one of the vast shelves of bottles. There were a few rows of Silver Oak, ranging from 2014 to 2019. “Which one do you want?” I inquired. “Well, that 2014 Napa Valley is one of my favorites,” he replied. “OK, so we’re getting that,” I said, reaching for the bottle to bring to the server to pop open.

“Nah, you don’t have to do that. That bottle is $157. The other one is $107,” my father said, knowing that I was going to buy the bottle for him on his special day. “So? It’s a difference of $50. And this is the year and make you wanted. It’s been decided. Besides, you only turn 80 once,” I shrugged with a sly grin, handing the bottle to the server.

Yes, it’s true. My dad recently turned 80 years old. It’s a wild thing to behold, somewhat crazy to comprehend, actually. It’s one of those weird things about growing up that nobody really prepares you for, which is seeing your parents get older. These bastions of physical and emotional strength slowly being overtaken by the sands of times, the winds of change as each season rolls into the next, each generation leapfrogged by those who eventually succeed them.

And that’s a beautiful thing in a way, for nothing is permanent in this universe, which is all the more reason to cherish the time and place you reside in, the people you have surrounded yourself with. That, and it’s a privilege to get older. At least, I think so.

Shit, it’s beats the alternative, am I right? So long as you try and take care of yourself — with regular exercise, good food and beverage, spontaneous adventures, hearty conversation, unrelenting curiosity and self-discovery, and meaningful thought — there’s no reason you can’t live a happy and healthy existence until all is said and done.

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Like clockwork, Frank and my mother, Kathy, were in Waynesville en route to their annual spring trip to Florida from Upstate New York. Leave the frigid temperatures and deep snow of the North Country in the rearview mirror and look out the windshield at sunshine, white sand beaches and endless margaritas.

And I look forward to those visits. I only really get to see my folks a handful of times each year, something I don’t take for granted. They roll through for quick rendezvous in the spring and fall, while I wander home in the summer for my niece’s birthday in June and again for Christmas (can’t miss mom’s homecooking).

With Frank hitting the 80-year milestone, I’ve been reflecting on our time together, and what our relationship means above all else. First off, I’m 37 years old. And I’m the oldest child (with a little sister). Frank was almost 43 years old when I came into this world. So, he’s still some six years older than I am now when I arrived.

I was seven when he turned 50, 17 when he turned 60, and 30 when he turned 73. So, he’s always been “older” than my peers’ parents throughout my life and experiences.

But, he’s also always taken care of himself. A lifelong athlete and die-hard runner, he’s completed over 80 marathons and thousands (and thousands) of road races over the years (most notably the Boston Marathon a whopping 12 times).

He remains an inspiration to me, and to any and all he crosses paths with. Though his once Zeus-like stride is more of a shuffle now, and though his jog is much slower than his 02:48 PR (personal record) marathon time, he still manages to get up each morning, lace up his running shoes and head out the door for quick trot around the block or at a nearby park.

And yet, Frank has always been about tough love, and being tough to read. He’s a kind and generous soul, but also old-school in many ways, something that’s part of his upbringing as a child of the 1940s growing up in a tiny mining town in the Adirondack Mountains (my grandfather was an iron ore miner).

But, even with this stern outside demeanor, and his lifelong hatred of surprise parties, events in his honor or any kind of public attention, Frank can sure hold court in a room full of people, spinning endless tales of his wanderings and interactions.

There’s his time in the U.S. Army in the early 1960s. A stint as a New York State prison guard in the 1970s. His decades-long career as a U.S. Immigration officer on the Canadian Border. His extensive running endeavors. The travels across America. And now his latest role — grandfather to my two nieces, Lucy and Rory.

Thus, when the last of the wine was poured Saturday evening, and the last of the charcuterie board devoured, after the “Happy Birthday” was sung by a room full of familiar and beloved faces, and the massive bill paid, and the last of the goodbyes and handshakes given, it was time to walk my dad back to his ride (my mom) to the motel down the road.

As I helped him into the car, and before I shut the door, he looked up at me and said, “You know, this has been the best birthday I’ve ever had. Thank you.” No, thank you, Frank, for always being a voice of reason and a person of stoic nature. I, for one, am grateful to call you “dad.”

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.

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