We are our parents, like it or not.

Dad. This morning, so vividly I dreamed about him at our 5058 family house.
I could hear his voice, see the cadence in his walk.
There he was, bed head, in his boxer shorts and his v-neck t-shirt shuffling thru the house from bedroom, to kitchen to living room. Sitting at the kitchen table. I could hear his voice. For once he did not whistle, but he did say a few of his favorite things. Of course, I can’t remember. Maybe it was “oasty toast”. Or perhaps he sang one of his favorites, “Matches, matches” He spoke to all of us. Whatever he was doing or saying, he was in what we called “Lou time”.

My dad was funny and sometimes inappropriate. He subscribed to shock humor, but sometimes he could just raise an eyebrow, roll his eyes and you’d laugh. He sang out loud for no particular reason. He re-racked almost every day and stayed in his boxers or sweats until he was ready to shower and leave the house. And sometimes he didn’t leave, especially on game days. He got up, sat at the "helm" (in his case, the kitchen table), drew lines on paper, made a few calls, and got to work on the point spreads. He loved his ownership of the kitchen table and doing his work right in the middle of the “hub”. He had a schedule in his head which he did not always share with anyone else. But in his mind, it was all going to work out.

What do I remember about this particular dream? It was still so strong when I got up that I wanted to cry like a child, I missed my parents so much, but from the time I got up, fed the dog, had some coffee, got to the computer the details were quickly fading.

We were all there at the house on Western Hills Ave., Gina was small, Vince was getting a baseball lecture from Dad, mom was spinning like a little tornado, managing everything, my friend Monica was there, it was raining and I had to dig thru the hall closet to find us umbrellas, Abe Vigoda (ok, it WAS a dream!) lived next door somehow. There was a restaurant in the cul de sac on our street that Monica and I were going to go to to meet my mom. Mom appeared outside in the car and the car would not start, it was raining, she was aggravated and Abe said he could jump it. Dad thought that was funny and he and I watched from the porch as it poured rain. Abe got the car started, but also got a shock. Turns out he was standing in water. Dad laughed his silent heaving laugh. I said it’s really NOT funny, but it was because of how he saw it.

I am 56 years old and I’d say sometimes I am so much more like my dad than my mom. Especially when it comes to flow of my day and my work, and where I find my humor in life. I wear sweats, not boxers and have been accused of being firmly planted in “LuAnn time”. I am not a bookie, but I do live my life based on possibility, luck and trust with a huge dose of talent, thank God.

And if there is one thing I can see clearly now that I am “orphaned” it is that we are all one, connected at birth. We are them, our wacky parents, like it or not, to some degree.

So this year, if you are lucky enough to still have both parents, be grateful and give them some extra time…its all they really want, because having them both, well, there is nothing like it and it does not last forever.