Fathers, In-law

Shortly after we moved into our first house, my father couldn’t wait to help get it shipshape, so he broke a basement window to get in one day I wasn’t home.  When we moved into our second house, he made sure I was home to help him punch a hole through a basement wall to install a heater vent.  Berwyn bungalows don’t easily yield their bricks, especially to an 83-year hammer-wielding assailant; this was one time my dad needed my help.  That, and when he installed a basement outlet.  Again, a certain amount of brute strength was required to bend the conduit just so.  I have no idea where he came up with that crimping tool.

My father-in-law has led an interesting life, growing up in a West Side orphanage and then foster care before spending twelve months as a walking target in Korea.  One of his few memories of life before the orphanage involves Humboldt Park, where he and his twin brother used to roam.  There was a wooden track for bicycle races that caught his eye.  He asked if it was still there when we told him about the 606 Trail just north of the park.

After buying me the Schwinn for my 18^th birthday, my father enrolled it in some sort of police program should it ever be stolen (though not yet in 45 years) by etching his driver’s license identification number on one of the arms of the pedal assembly.  So, I venture forth even now with a bit of fatherly protection.  And I think of myself as a cyclist spinning around a track to the delight of a 7-year old.