BEING DAD THE TRUE GIFTS OF FATHERHOOD.

Byline: PHIL SHUMAN Local View

THE simple but powerful remark came at the most unusual of times, but with kids isn't it always that way? < ``We talked about death today at Hebrew school,'' my 10-year-old said as we smacked baseballs into a net in the backyard. It was a few days before a scheduled field trip to a cemetery, of all places.

``Really?'' I asked. ``What about death?''

``Nothing special,'' was Matt's reply, and, of course, that was expected. A little one can only share so much with a dad.

What is death to a child anyway? Is it real? Is it what they see on TV, in the movies, on video games? Matt couldn't really answer those questions, so that's why it's good that his religious school class is confronting the issues. And that's the reason for the unusual field trip.

Then, just when I thought we were moving on, this one from the youngster: ``You didn't tell me that Jewish people don't believe in heaven and hell'' -- a strange statement in between swings.

``Well, it's never really come up. What do we believe?'' I asked.

Matt had the answer ready. ``Dad ... (eye roll) we believe that all souls go back to God.''

``That sounds good, I like that.''

His turn again. ``Why didn't you tell me that?''

He had me there. I had to pause. ``Well, you know what? That's why you go to school, to learn these kinds of things.''

Light bulb -- then the payoff from him: ``Finally, after all these years, I learned something at a school!''

Finally, indeed. The whole school thing apparently made sense to him then.

Not be outdone, flash forward a couple of hours to a rare ``everyone's here at the same time let's have dinner together with the blended family moment.''

This time, it was the 18-year-old, Jackie, home from college, very mature, and starting her part-time summer dream job at a local radio station. She's into music that no one I know has ever heard, or would listen to, but then again, we're old. During the previous winter break, she'd gone out on job interviews, they went well, she was reportedly excited, and, for a teenager, that's about the most you can hope for.

In talking to her about all this, I briefly mentioned that she needed to write some thank-you notes to the people who interviewed her. Now this is an arcane, old-fashioned concept to anyone under 40, maybe even 50. I mean, what is e-mail for? Or instant messages? I gently insisted that this would be a worthwhile use of her very valuable and limited time, so she said she would do it.

I didn't push it, as is my style, the success of which is still very much uncertain. The vacation ended, and she went back East to school. And now, with the school year over, we're back to that current dinner table conversation. She's completed her first day of seemingly endless filing for her new radio-station boss, Katie, when she asks, ``You remember those thank-you notes you wanted me to write?''

``Yes?''

``Well, when I was with Katie today, I saw that she had the note I sent her posted on the wall in her cubicle.''

``Really?'' I said, but inside I was feeling ``Yessss!''

``I guess it made an impression on her. It was probably the only one she got.''

Then Jackie, in an aside to Janet, her saint of a stepmother, filled her in as if she didn't already know the whole story. Left unsaid by Dad, ``thank you,'' and unspoken by all, was the big ``I told you so.''

But that's not the point. The point is that she listened, I didn't bug, she eventually did it, it made a difference, she remembered, and made the connection between parental suggestion, real world and positive result.

I point these two varied episodes out not to nominate myself for any parental award or special Father's Day recognition. Far from it. I point them out as crucial but brief interactions between parent and child.

Fleeting yet important. Easily lost in the day-to-day struggle.

People are dying in wars, we don't have enough money to buy a house, and it takes a mortgage payment to fill our gas tanks. We worry about the cost of college. We won't have enough money to retire. Our parents are getting sick. And through it all the daily realization that we still have to get up, put a smile on our face, get to school, get to work, fight traffic, go to practice, do homework, eat dinner, e-mail, modify the MySpace profile, watch ``American Idol,'' play video games, read a book, take a shower, maybe talk to the spouse, schedule sex, go to bed and then start from scratch the next day while making sure the kids are healthy, happy, safe and are receiving a good education.

So I'm thinking that when we have one of these rare moments -- a meaningful interaction, a teach-or-be-taught opportunity with our children, we have to recognize it, remember it, savor it, cherish it, milk it, talk about it, and share it. On Father's Day or any day. I mean we're doing it all for them in the first place, aren't we?

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