DON'T MISS CHANCE TO SPEND TIME WITH DAD.

Byline: CAROL ROCK

valleynews.com user

I'm trying to remember the last Father's Day I had with my Dad. I'm pretty sure it was one of those Sundays when we (my beloved and I, both starving college students) showed up for dinner, exchanged a few pleasantries and talked about him helping me move my kit and caboodle from the Bay Area to a studio apartment I'd found in Burbank.

It was a junket he clearly looked forward to, just him and his girl in a car loaded with all the stuff he and Mom couldn't wait to move out of the house. We'd start out early on Saturday morning, drive down the 5 and stop for a burger and shake for me and a smoke break for him along the way.

Once we got to Burbank, we unloaded and I got to show him around L.A. for a couple of days. We drove through the caverns of downtown, through the garment district and near Parker Center, where I worked; watched the bustle of shopkeepers as well as a homeless man urinating against the side of a gleaming granite tower and drove by NBC, where I dreamed of working someday. He told me he'd put the roof on the original studio building, something I marveled at, but checked out years later when I did land a job at the network. Guess my reporter instincts are hard-wired.

I don't remember much more of his visit, except that it was too short. As we drove back up north, I ran over a few of the raised white dots in the road, something he teased me about and when he took the wheel, matching me dot for dot in gamelike fashion. We had a great time and when he dropped me off at the airport, we vowed to take another road trip soon.

Dad was diagnosed with TB when I was 10 years old and spent a good portion of my formative years in the veterans hospital. During that time, every Sunday seemed like Father's Day to me, since it was the only time I got to see my dad and I was aware enough to know that my visits should be limited to give Mom more time with the man she loved so much. He came home for good around the time I turned 17 and that road trip three years later was spent making up for lost time. We were getting to know each other all over again; him, the quiet retired roofer and World War II veteran; me, his newly grown-up only child, living in the big city down south.

A couple of weekends later, I got the phone call that every child dreads. My dad had a fatal heart attack at home and my mother needed me back up north. I vaguely remember the fog of calling my boss at the LAPD, asking a neighbor to watch my cats, getting to the airport and buying a ticket and wishing I was old enough to drink on the plane.

There would be no road trips, no more getting to know each other better, no laughing as we bounced over the bumps on the highway. I had been given one chance, one long weekend to embrace as much of my father's essence as I could. Would that I'd had time, the man who always acted as a buffer between my mother and I (we fought like cats and dogs) might have been able to create a workable peace instead of being the confidant at the other end of a long-distance phone call. One thing I know for sure: he liked my beloved, who I eventually married, and would have given the seal of approval for his fathering skills.