My father is a rabbi, despite what he might tell you. When at parties, he tells people that he sells used pool tables, because it's the only way he can get the other guys to tell him dirty jokes. My father is many other things, too: a magician (his card advertises Zanville the Great, but "Great" is x-ed out and "Pretty Good" is substituted), a part-time radio host for a local (Norfolk, VA) classical music station, a gourmet cook, a philosopher, a Gilbert and Sullivan aficionado, the list goes on and on.
My family has a hobby of going out to restaurants, and without fail I can look at the menu and predict correctly what my father will order. Number one: If there is a steak on the menu, that's what he's getting, and he will ask for it to be so rare it's still bloody. Number two: If there is no steak, he will order it anyway, and ask for it to be so rare it's still bloody. Number three: if there is still no steak, he'll order something else, but he won't be happy about it. Unfortunately, I have inherited his love of red meat.
I have always admired my father to no end- I was raised to accept all kinds of people despite any differences, visible or invisible. He has friends from all different walks of life, and I think that has enriched his life so much that he values people above all else. Fortunately, I inherited his love of people. Happy Father's Day, and thank you, papa.
I have another dad, too. My partner's father, Jack. As fate would have it, he is a retired Methodist minister. To say I am lucky to know this man is an understatement. He has been in remission for over 5 years from esophageal cancer. He's always up for a lively conversation or debate. Jack likes to tell us about the time he was wrong about something, but later discovered he was mistaken. Happy Father's Day, Jack...and the eggs.