Today is the sixth anniversary of the passing of my dad. Naturally, this week brings out in me a little bit of introspection. I was riding the bus home at 3:00 in the morning, watching out the window as it continued to rain as it has been for hours, thinking that my dad used to be the guy driving this bus. I don’t mean that metaphorically. Pop used to drive the #22 Clark bus, sometimes overnight. He did overnights on Sheridan also, where, he told me once, he figured out that you have to drive exactly 28 miles per hour (and not have anyone wanting to get on or off) to catch every light.

I didn’t look at the driver (was I afraid I’d see a ghost?) but I wondered about generations…parent to child…and how much better off am I than my dad? When he was my age he’d had three sons, had lived in three countries on three continents and had to escape Nazis (at the age of 4) and Fascists (at the age of 34).

So at least I can say I win points for having a level of stability.
But I get annoyed when my shoes get wet. I have to give him points for toughness.

All this (and soooo much more that I won’t go in to) runs through my head and I think of the future…my future…our future (Penny and I), and I wonder if, no matter how hard I work, my son will be riding the bus home at three in the morning from a job he’s over-qualified for (no one cares about my masters degree on the 3:00 am bus) wondering if his dad would be proud of him or not.