To Sir, With Love

Yesterday was my daddy's birthday, and so I dropped by his house—which is around the corner, in country terms, from the university where I teach—to bring him a present.

Usually what I bring is a sixpack of Warsteiner, a jar of pickled herring, a small loaf of vollkornbrot, and a couple of Ritter Sport chocolate bars. The chocolate bars are for him, for later; the rest is for us to have a picnic either in his backyard, if the weather is mild, or in the dining room if it's not. Either way the subject of conversation is always his garden, and his plans for it. By the end of March my father is so anxious for winter to be over so he can start working in the garden, you can actually feel it in his conversation.

This year, instead of beer and chocolate, what I gave him was a marketing textbook with his name on the cover.

As I stepped out of my car my father stepped out of his garage, motioning me to come. He was talking on the cordless phone to one of his sisters in Germany. "Der Vater ist mit siebzig gestorben. Vielleicht lebe ich ein par Jahre länger," he was saying.

I kissed him on the cheek and said, "Don't be silly. You're going to live to be a hundred, if for no other reason than so you won't have to give me your money." And then I chatted in German with one of my three Aunt Erikas; this one, my father's youngest sister in Schwabenland.

I can't stay long, I said, in German and then again in English. I have a class at 5:00. But I'll be back in a couple of weeks to get some tomato plants, just like last year.

"They're already starting to come up," said my father, "But don't take any until we're sure the snow won't come anymore."

In this part of Canada there is almost always one last snowstorm in early April. Just when you think it's safe to put away your boots and take off your winter tires, is exactly when it will happen. So I'll wait. I can be very patient when I need to be.

Then my father asked about Jack. Was he practicing his dancing. Would he be coming to visit again, and could we go dancing at the German club in Niagara Falls again, like we did last summer.

I said, we'll see, because I don't want my dad to think I'm any bigger of a loser than he already does, and than I already am. I didn't show him the picture that Amy took of me and Jack in front of the gorgeous purple wisteria bush on my aunt's patio.

And I didn't tell him about my new friend, the Hot Chef from the Junction, because when it's your father's 69th birthday a heart attack is not what you want to give him as a birthday gift.

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In the next story, it's clear Postmodern Sass is procrastinating once again.