Games of Tag and Endless Conversation

I remember two things about growing up as Dad's partner when I was young and went with him to work on the farm.

The first is the countless rides in the truck. I have no idea how the game originated, but somewhere along the line Dad and I started playing tag in the cab of the truck. I know that playing a game of tag with absolutely nowhere to run seems silly, but somehow we made up rules about stop signs and placement of the truck and other absurdities that made it competitive and fun. It was an ongoing game, and we each took great pleasure in feigning having forgotten the game until the last second, when we could pounce and tag the other individual, jump out of the truck, and claim victory. The game was ongoing and lasted for many years. Bragging rights in our game of tag were larger than any trophy I could imagine in my youth.

The other memory I have of those days were the number of times Dad would get into a conversation with someone, and I had to stand there and wait, bored as hell. I could even predict when it was going to happen based on the time of day, location, and personnel we encountered. Dad would stand and talk for what seemed like hours to one of his landlords, or around a coffee table at the local welding business, or especially at the Coop. I knew better than to whine about it being time to go because I was bored; instead, I just stood there, occasionally listened, smiled when referred to, and bet with myself on how long it would take before we could leave. It didn't take long for me to figure out his "getting ready to leave" words. When certain phrases came up, I knew my wait was down to a couple of minutes.

As a man and a father now, I see two ideas I should have learned from these, whether he meant me to or not. The first is that every minute with my kids is an opportunity. Dad was a busy guy, and so am I now; what he showed in that game of tag was a willingness to make the moments we had together in the truck valuable. It was a stupid game of tag with ridiculous rules, and all DOT officials would probably frown on the lack of strict attention on the driving itself. But I remember it fondly, and it was something we did together that I remember more than two decades after the fact.

I also learned to value people. What I didn't understand in my youthful desire to get from place to place as quickly as possible is that Dad was building relationships. People are the real currency, not busyness. I have spent a great deal of time in my adult life rushing from place to place, hurrying to this duty and that accomplishment, chasing God knows what. In my rush to get I don't know where, I know there are times I saw people who wanted to stop and talk as a liability, not an opportunity. I wish I hadn't waited until I was 32 to learn the lesson of sitting around a table with cheap coffee, a cookie or two, and random conversation. But I know it now.

I may be a late learner, but I'm glad Dad was there to act out the lesson that no matter how busy the schedule is, slow down for your kids and slow down for people.