My dad’s birthday falls around Thanksgiving. Every few years it lands straight on it. He doesn’t seem to mind sharing it—my dad likes to eat. That photo above? It captures him at one of his happiest moments: four bites into a fresh piece of lefse. I can almost guarantee he’ll experience this moment again today because lefse is a holiday staple in our family.
I’ve been thinking lately about small kindnesses and how they shape the way we remember people. So here’s a story about my dad being kind—not to me (he’s my dad, so that’s a given), but to two complete strangers.
One winter night, my family was driving home after dark. We reached the west edge of town and saw two men walking along the shoulder of the road.
“Hop in the backseat,” my dad said to my sister as he slowed down our minivan. She climbed over to sit with my other two sisters, leaving me alone in the middle seat.
My dad pulled alongside the men, flipped on the interior light, and waved them in like they were old buddies from high school.
This is one major difference between me and my dad. He sees strangers in the dark and imagines potential friends. I imagine serial killers.
The two men squeezed in next to me on the bench seat, smelling of beer and cigarettes. My dad made small talk while I quietly prepared to die. He asked where they wanted to be dropped off, and I prayed they wouldn’t say “New York City.” My dad’s altruism often knows no bounds. Also, I was feeling squished.
Thankfully, they just needed a ride to the gas station. Also thankfully, they were not serial killers. If I had to guess, they’re probably actual friends of his now who send him Thanksgiving invitations every year.
Love,
Aaron
P.S. My phone recently resurfaced a little slideshow of my dad. Siri’s algorithm thinks this is the best representation of him, and honestly, I can’t disagree. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you—and Happy Birthday, Dad.