A case could be made that all parents are philanthropists. Defined as “altruistic concern for human welfare and advancement usually manifested by donations of money, property, or work to needy persons,” the philanthropy shoe does fit. One could even argue that the first mutual donation occurs in that singular celestial moment of conception—genetics. And that perhaps the only one more needy than the vulnerable newborn is the teenager plying his parents for keys and cash.
Fathers, however, particularly with daughters, pony up for more than what is generally acknowledged. And what they most indelibly bequeath is this: a definitive set of nuances and cues to all things masculine, in short, a girl’s essential “Real Men Are…” list. Perhaps it, too, is gifted genetically alongside the hair, height, and the humor gene. This influential list is manifested in life altering expectations, dreams, and decisions. Yet it is most often bestowed so obliviously—and even that is so perfectly male.
Typically, Dads are celebrated for the familiar and self-evident: life-lesson anecdotes, the less than subtle screening of potential boyfriends, hiking epics, fish tales and skiing exploits, Sunday morning pancakes and cheering on your team. These are things they do. I am talking about who they are, the essence of what makes them “Dad.” Fundamental to their lifeblood, these idiosyncrasies become intrinsic to mine. I am talking about things like hands and feet, cars and cigars.
Dads are a daughter’s first glimpse into the strange but true world of men and boys. Perhaps not the first one you run to with a scraped knee, they are the often the administrators of the almighty allowance. They tumble and roughhouse and jab. They drive things like lawnmowers, boats, power tools, rototillers, and barbecues—with gusto and bravado. They dress up - work shoes, shirts and ties, suits with apparent distaste. Everything seems somehow bigger with Dads—their hands, their feet, their eyebrows and ears, and louder—their cheering, their singing, their laughter, their anger, and more certain—their handshakes and opinions, their conviction, and coolness.
I lost my Dad never having known him as an adult with human frailties. My memories live in the raw, pure unadulterated love of a child, uncomplicated with growth and change. The “real men are” list I fell heir to was Dad’s ultimate act of inadvertent philanthropy. And while my list is specific to him and to me, I imagine that the more things change the more they stay the same; that now as then father /daughter relationships are intangible, complicated, and critical. I imagine that as daughters we all inherit a list and that as girls we are all influenced by it.
I don’t smoke. I have never smoked. I don’t like the smell of smoke in my hair, my clothes, or my car. Yet for me there is little, if anything, more intrinsically masculine, sensual, and seductive than the distinctive sweet scent of cigar blended with notes of spanking new car leather. Cerebrally it makes no sense. Yet, in the space of an instant I am slayed. It is, in a nutshell, my Dad.
Memories of Dad are inextricably tied to cars. He loved them. He sold new and used General Motors cars for a living, managing three dealerships in the fifteen years I had with him. We never actually owned a car. Dad would arrive home, or pick me up from school or figure skating, in the “car of the day” off the lot, invariably rather new yet still mildly infused with the organic pungency of Dad’s Old Port cigar.
We lived in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. It was a small, two-dealership town, Ford and General Motors. Dad was the GM dealer. My best friend, Jane, lived across the alley and her Dad owned the Ford dealership. We were Catholic and they were United. Of course they were. Catholic–GM, United–Ford. They went together like roast beef and potatoes. It was the 1960s, I was seven years old and this, apparently, was just how it was.
