A Few Words About My Dad
My Dad, Ben Sokolec, Spring 1980 At a French coffee shop for breakfast during a recent trip to New York, Steve and I sat across from a father and his ten year old son. The dad ate his omelet while working his Blackberry. The boy concentrated on his laptop game while he nibbled a slice of toast. Neither spoke. The check came, the father paid and they left. The boy held the laptop open, still working the keys as they climbed into the car. For many years, my Dad sold wholesale meat to local butcher shops and spent more time than he cared to at the stockyards. His days began at 3 in the morning and by two in the afternoon, his workday ended. In the warm weather, he’d play a round of golf and by the time I got home from school, he’d be napping on the sofa, listening to the radio. I’d nestle alongside him in what I remember as a safety zone. We didn’t say much, but the connection was there. He’d ask about my day, my friends. Mostly we’d just listen to an afternoon baseball game or the...