You know, my son Eric laughs at me, but this is how I was taught. Before you get into a car, you walk around it once and make sure everything looks all right. It only takes a few seconds; I don't know why he gives me such a hard time. Why would you get into a car without at least checking to make sure all your tires still have air in them? So he'll learn the hard way, I guess. It seems like real lessons just can't be handed down. You have to learn them for yourself. Sometimes, though, I just want to shake him. I want to give him my knowledge so badly — drill it into him, if I have to — so he doesn't have to make the mistakes that I made. But I don't think he understands that. Thinks I'm a hard ass. He doesn't know how lucky he is to have a father who cares. Well, he'll have kids of his own someday ... Aw hell, that's what my father used to say to me: "I can't wait until you have children of your own," he used to say. "Then you'll understand."

Dad! I hope he's feeling better today. I'd better get moving. Let's see — the car started up fine, I've got plenty of gas, and Eric and I just changed the oil last week. I'm on my way.

Poor Dad. I thought he'd beaten this cancer, too. He beat prostate cancer ten years ago. Of course, he's been crowing about it ever since, telling anyone who'll listen how his "strong constitution" helped get him through "the procedure." Dad's long since given up trying to pronounce "radical prostatectomy," simply referring to his surgery now as "the procedure."

He'd been cancer-free this whole time, but he's got it in his pancreas now. It's a painful cancer, more painful than the other one, but he's tough, my old man. They had thought it was in remission; the surgery and radiation seemed to have been successful. But now he's not doing so hot, and it's not just in his pancreas anymore. It's a tough cancer to lick, I guess. They made no bones about that from the start, especially considering his age. Still, there had been a "strong likelihood" that he could make a full recovery. But now ...

Oh, I hate this intersection. Why did I come this way? They paid all that money — my tax money — to put in a light, only to have it blink red at me all the time. And it blinks yellow the other way, so no one ever lets you go. They might as well have just put up a two-way stop sign and saved the money for something else because that's all this is: a goddamn two-way stop. All right, here's a break.

I'm disappointed in Eric for not coming with me today. I'm sure Dad would love to see his grandson. I offered to let him drive, and I even promised not to say a word the whole way down. I figure he's not going to listen to me anyway, so I've got to stop criticizing his driving. He's had his license for over a year now, so I guess he knows what he's doing. Besides, I'll be an old man someday, and I'll need him to cart me around. Ha! He certainly owes me a ride or two, that's for sure!

Ah, there's a smile. Look at my face in the rearview, though. I am getting old. Before I know it, he'll be in college. Hell, before I know it, he'll be married with kids, and I'll be the grandfather he's dragging them off to go see. Heh.

Still, I thought I'd raised Eric better. To refuse to see his grandfather on what could be his deathbed? He says he'll come "next time." I guess he's too young to realize that there might not be a next time. He can't put off goofing around with his friends to spend one lousy afternoon with his family? Can't set aside three hours to catch a game on TV with his dad and his grandpa?

I can remember watching ballgames with Dad when I was a boy. He was always trying to instruct me, trying to use the game on television to teach me. Another smile: and I hated it because I just wanted to watch the game. "Not everything has to be a lecture, Dad." Did I really used to say that to him?

He'd sit in his easy chair, and I'd pull in a chair from the kitchen and set it up right next to him. "Pay attention," he'd always tell me. "Now what are they doing wrong here?"

I remember this one game, in particular. The other team was at bat with one out and the bases loaded. It was a close game: our team was down by a run in the middle innings, and the manager had just pulled the infield in.

"Nothing, Dad," I can remember saying. "We can't afford to let another run come in. Play's to the plate."

And Dad held up his index finger. "If it's hit to the corners, yes," he said solemnly. "But if it's hit up the middle," he said, getting up out of his chair, "you turn the double play and you're out of the inning," and he mimicked scooping up a grounder and throwing it. "Second and Short should be farther back and a whisker closer to the second base bag."

I remember it like it was last week, instead of nearly forty years ago. The batter hit the ball right at the shortstop, who promptly fired it home for the easy force out. The catcher then threw to first, trying for a double play, but the throw wasn't in time. Still, they'd got an out and prevented the run from scoring. "See, Dad?" I said, turning to face him. "Now there are two outs. Nobody's come in yet, and there's still a force at every base."

But my father just shook his head and grunted. "Hmph. They could be out of the inning already. That was a tailor-made double play ball if they'd been in position to make it."

He always has to be right, my old man. There's no debate with him. He knows best, and that's the end of it ...

Of course, now I'm thinking about Eric, and that smile's creeping back into the corners of my mouth. Yeah. I'm guilty of the same thing every time I say, "You see, Eric, you should always check your tires before you get into a car ..." I guess growing up is just the constant struggle between following the instruction of our elders and asserting our own independence. And I'm not sure it ever stops.

Ah, Eric's a good kid. I forget sometimes that he's seventeen. He's supposed to want to goof off with his friends. I really wish he'd come with me today, but he'll turn out all right. I've really been blessed with a great kid.

Aw hell, here comes another bad intersection. The people in this house on the left never bother to trim their hedges, so you can't see what's coming. And the traffic is always doing ten, twenty over the speed limit. I'll tell you — what they should have done is put up those lights at this intersection and made them motion-sensored, so they only change when someone's waiting to go. Like me now. They need more than just a stop sign here. But they won't be satisfied, I guess, until someone gets killed. OK, looks like I can go after this car ...

*

*

*

The room remained painfully quiet, and Eric said softly, "At least, that's what I think was going through his head, the day my daddy died."