How to relax like my dad

Know what a beanball from left field is? I do. How? The same way I know what a high hanging fly ball is. How to correctly fill out a check. Why you should always work a Ted Shane Crazy Crossword in pencil. You only need a dad like mine. I learned these things (and so much more!) hanging out in the living room with him while he shrugged off his workday woes by genuinely relaxing. These days, that’s a lost art.

Work hard, relax harder

Raised during the Depression and put in charge of younger siblings when he was still in short pants, Dad knew what hard work was. But nobody relaxed harder, either.

Rising before the sun, Dad washed, shaved, and put on a Mom-ironed, crisp white shirt, then donned his Walt Disney-style silver-gray suit (fresh from the cleaners in rotation with his slate blue one). He always made a big deal about tucking the hanky I laboriously ironed into his breast pocket to show me how much he appreciated my eager contribution to his office attire. Next socks, then the shoes he polished, buffed, and shined every Saturday evening while he whistled along with easy listening radio. Now he was ready for his 1 ½ hour (one way!) daily commute from Maryland to Virginia.

For his weekend home chores, Dad wore slightly shabby, outworn work trousers and a clean white tee-shirt. Summer found him smoking the inevitable Winston as he mowed the grass with a hand-push reel mower. I worked on the edges with an uncooperative pair of medieval-looking clippers. My reward was a popsicle; Dad’s was his one and only weekly sweating-cold Pabst’s Blue Ribbon, which he enjoyed in the webbed chaise lounge. There he sat, listening to his transistor radio, sipping his beer and admiring his freshly cropped lawn. I could usually be found nearby, reading, cutting out paper dolls or coloring.

Relax like you mean it

I catalogue Dad’s self-sacrificing work ethic (which was very typical for the era, mind you) to prepare you for the flip side—his unapologetic downtime.

When this man relaxed, he 100% relaxed.

Weekdays around 5:30pm, Dad would arrive, greet his family, turn the dial to his favorite radio station (WWDC 1250), and stretch out on the sofa for a restorative pre-dinner snooze. At 6pm, Mom called us to the table where we ate an unvarying menu of meat-and-potatoes meals. No one complained, least of all Mom. Unless he was sharing a funny joke he’d heard that day, Dad’s office life was never mentioned at the table. Table talk revolved around our school life or neighborhood news. Dad’s only after-dinner drink was tea—hot in winter, sweet and iced in summer.

It never occurred to Dad to bring his work home or complain to his family. Work was work and when he left the building, he left it behind, bidding his work buddies a happy goodnight. His job wasn’t fancy or important, it was simply a paycheck. His identity wasn’t wrapped up in it—his family was what mattered to him. I saw that firsthand when he’d take me to work on paycheck day. How he beamed when his kind, kidding coworkers fussed over Daddy’s little girl!

After the table was cleared and dishes done (Mom washed, Dad dried), the evening’s recreation began. While we kids watched TV, Dad, who never heard of “multi-tasking,” would sit down to his current low-key pastime. These suburban hobbies usually involved a paintbrush: decoupaging furniture, sprucing up my wooden springy horse, delicately stirring oil paints with a toothpick for his latest paint-by-number masterpiece. He’d stack LPs high on the stereo spindle of his coffin-sized hi-fi set and brush away, smoking and humming, happy as the proverbial clam.

Our very humble vacations (driving to Pennsylvania’s Clearfield State Fair or the Chesapeake Bay to visit my mom’s siblings) were possibly the ultimate relaxation proving ground. Dad cheerfully drove for hours, a carefree smile on his tanned face, his bronzed left arm propped on the car windowsill, happily spoiling our dinners with Dairy Queen layovers.  (Clicking the links above will take you on those road trips with Dad and me.)

Back in the day, they called this sort of thing “unwinding” and Dad could have won a gold medal. When he worked crosswords, he worked crosswords, quietly, peacefully. When he watched a game on TV, he focused on the game, eating Spanish peanuts by the handful and cheering on the Senators or Redskins. (To this day, sotto voice radio sports commentary immediately tranquilizes me.)

Was my father’s life significant? By today’s standards, probably not. Did he amass a fortune? Goodness, no. But his life was a rich, well-balanced, happy one. And that’s a wonderful legacy.

And, I’ll tell you what—living with a happy, doting father who knows when to work and when to rest is the easiest pathway to believing that your adoring Heavenly Father is the same way.

Rest in peace, Dad. Your work on Earth was well-done.

Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Matthew 11:29