Happy Birthday Papo

I ride the bus to school a few times a week. I havenˆ‚t ridden a bus to school in almost 10 years at this point. But there I am, at the bus stop, a few times a week. These arenˆ‚t the yellow school buses of my youth, however. These buses are public transit at its finest. Old buses, whoˆ‚ve been put out to pasture by their respective municipalities and given a fresh coat of paint and new life here in L-Town. These buses remind me of the old Chicago Transit Authority buses. The big, green, lumbering transports that inhabit the Chicago of my childhood memories. Now that I think about it, a few of the KU buses are painted in the multi-tonal green of the old CTA buses.

My father rode the CTA to class when he was an undergrad. Rather, I like to tell myself he did, while Iˆ‚m riding my bus to school these days. I like to think of him hopping on one of those big multi-tonal green monsters up and down Addison 30 years ago. I see Papo there in the heat of the Chicago summer, and the cold of the winter, hiking down Ottawa to Addison, and waiting in whatever weather, waiting for his bus. My knowledge of Papoˆ‚s life before there was a Nenie tells me that itˆ‚s not all that likely that he rode the bus to class all that often. He had an old VW Beetle at the time, a car as legendary in my family as Arturo. All the same, though, I donˆ‚t see that car when Iˆ‚m on the bus in the morning. I see a bus.

Freshman year of college, I was walking home from downtown NFLD. I hadnˆ‚t bothered to unpack my serious winter gear, and it had turned cold on me by October 15th. As I wandered home from the Monday, up the hill and through the residential district that lay between my warm bed and myself it started to snow. Light, wispy flakes started to float down through the perfectly dark sky. What little light there was around me served only to catch the glimmer of the white flakes. It looked like the stars were all around me, moving in slow motion, just close enough to touch. Since I hadnˆ‚t unearthed my winter gear, I was wearing a few tshirts under my favorite grey hoodie, topped off with my royal blue and red windbreaker.

Papo used to have a parka that my mother told us heˆ‚d had since he was an undergrad all those many years ago. It was royal blue with a red lining. I loved that coat. Nothing reminds me of my father the way that coat does; itˆ‚s emblematic of everything a little boy thinks of when he sees his father. Warmth, strength, and compassion: how many times had I shoveled walkways, looking for that blue blur in the distance. How many times had I used that blue as a target in a snowball fight, or looked for that color when school let out. Even now, I think of that coat sometimes and marvel at its size; it was larger than life just like Papo was and continues to be.

There I was, walking through the darkened streets, my breath hanging in the air, the stars close enough to touch, and me in my windbreaker; a windbreaker Iˆ‚d picked out because of its uncanny resemblance to my fatherˆ‚s parka. Walking through the darkened streets, the snow twinkling all around me, I began to imagine that this is something my father had done. I imagined him walking home in the snow, just as I was, clad in a big blue and red coat. I became so engrossed in this image that I half expected to end up at my Aunt Patˆ‚s doorstep, not the front door to my dorm. I can honestly say that I felt like an adult for the first time that night.

Iˆ‚d been battling a pretty severe case of homesickness at the time. My high school sweetheart had left me the week before, midterms were coming up, and the frosh on my floor didnˆ‚t really like me all that much. This college thing was turning out to be a pretty raw deal for me. Walking home that night, surrounded by this magical snow, I found the strength to deal with my unhappiness. It was the vision of my puffy, blue-clad arm that snapped me out of it. For a split second, there in the crisp Minnesota night, I had mistaken my own arm for that of my father and in the misrecognition; I felt a deep connection to my hero.

From that day forward Iˆ‚d have moments where I would suddenly feel a connection to my father because of what I was engaged in at the time. Working on a paper, teaching a class, driving my car. . . In those moments Iˆ‚d feel he was with me, no matter where I was, and that he was proud of what I was doing.

I know that my father is always proud of me that I donˆ‚t have to do anything or be anything to make him happy. But thatˆ‚s the thing with fathers and sons; my father is my hero. I think of what heˆ‚s done and where heˆ‚s been and I only wish that I could be that strong, that I could do that much. Every break I have in this life: breaks that he didnˆ‚t have, more often than not, I owe to him in some way or another. All I can do is hope I do as well with the cards heˆ‚s helped deal me.

There I am, riding the bus; thinking about my father riding the bus, all those years ago. I ride the bus and smile, I can feel him here with me and that feeling is there to remind me, that Iˆ‚m going the right way.