WENDELL ROBINSON . COM

Today is Fathers’ Day.  You may have noticed that I used the plural form there, and I have a reason.  I am blessed with more than one Dad. 

Over the years there have been others, men waltzing in and out of my life as the the winding road of time has moved me through communities of people and villages of self-development.  As a child, there were the men of our neighborhood who served as surrogates for an afternoon of pick-up games with their kids.  In adolescence they were the coaches who helped to temper my brief flairs of athletic prowess by teaching teamwork and fair play.  In my high school and college years, there was my friend Carey’s dad Bill who we called “the Dude” (and who by default occasionally referred to himself in the same way) - in high school I practically lived at his house, and when I was away from home in college he would always call and take me out for a “real meal” as he passed through town on business.

All of those men were great (especially the Dude - who unfortunately passed away a few years back), but they never could take the place of my dads.

In the formal nomenclature, I qualify for three.

One is my birth father - Wendell Robinson, Sr. (what, you thought I was walking around with this name because it was my folks’ first choice?  I was going to be Christopher, but a cousin came before me in the form of Kristi and well… another moniker was required).

One is my stepfather - Bob Jackson.

The last is my father-in-law - Milt Charlton.

All great men.  All role models.  Each beautiful and wonderful in their own particular way.

My father, Wendell, split up with my mom when I was three.  Looking back on it now with the limited memories I have of that time, it seemed fairly normal to me that parents got divorced.  Thanks to my juvenile naivete, I was unscathed mentally by the process.

As a father, Wendell was dutiful in visiting with my sister and I on the weekends.  We would stay at his place occasionally and on Sunday afternoons we would load up in the car for a return trip back across town from Cleveland’s west side to the east side as he returned us to our mom. 

As I got older, my relationship with Wendell evolved.  In my younger years he appeared as something of a mythical figure who by the nature of our limited exposure to one another was more hero than Dad.  I fantasized that he was off doing fabulous things with important people only touching down on the weekends to take me bowling or to a movie that my mom wouldn’t want me to see (the first “R” movie I ever saw was Semi-Tough with the old man on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I was 11).  By the time I was 8 or 9, the weekends had given way to the round robin of athletic seasons and Wendell’s visits usually involved him in the stands with a video or still camera capturing some moment for posterity that would eventually collect dust in a binder or shoe box on a shelf (to my father’s credit, but mostly because of his wife Nancy’s organizational skills these artifacts are easily retrieved and made available to my wife and daughter for humorous review).  In my teenage years, the sports continued and Wendell’s visits became fewer - not out of a lack of interest on his part, but mostly because of time constraints (he had a new family of his own and I was a teenager who wasn’t very interested in hanging out with the old man).

It was during these teenage years that my father became human for me.  He was no longer a Superman without fault, he was normal.  He had pressures.  He made mistakes.  Sometimes he failed, sometimes he succeeded.  The great thing about this period in my life with him though was that he told me about it.  He provided real life lessons in every conversation we had.  He would explain that people and relationships change.  He talked to me about decisions that he had made (both personal and professional), and plans he had for the future.  I was no longer a starry-eyed kid, I was his confidant and he was mine.

Since those teenage years, Wendell and I have had our ups and downs.  We see less and less of one another (he lives 12 hours away), but we talk about once a week on the phone and he bends over backwards to stay current in my life.  Always offering assistance, wanting to bring my family on vacations, visiting as often as possible.  He is a great father and I love him for the efforts he makes to continue as one.

It wasn’t long after my parents’ divorce that my mom re-upped on the matrimonial market.  She met and married Bob Jackson while I was in my fourth year.  From the beginning, Bob raised me as his own.  While he has two other children from a previous marriage, and my sister Tracy on his familial radar, I secretly believe that I am his favorite (I suspect that my siblings feel the same way about their relationship with him - and that’s just another thing about him that makes him great).  He coached me in sports, was the “Big Running Bear” to my “Little Running Bear” in Indian Guides and provided a solid foundation for me at home.  It was Bob Jackson who taught me how to ride a bike and it was also Bob Jackson who took me to the emergency room when I fell off that bike.

As I got older, Bob became more successful in his business and this success provided for a better lifestyle for our family.  We joined the country club.  I learned to play tennis and golf and Bob was always a willing partner.  He supported my interest in tennis so much so that for a couple of years he and I would travel each summer to watch the Davis Cup.  On one occasion I got to hawk balls for Jimmy Connors in New York and on another we were treated to the incredible 6 hour and 32 minute Mats Wilander/John McEnroe thriller in St. Louis.  It was an incredible period in my life, but one in which I was alwasy tutored to know that it came with a cost, and that cost was hard work.  Yes we played, but only because Bob worked hard and spent a lot of time on the road making it possible. 

The litany of things I could tell you about Bob could fill many pages, but the thing I think I love most about Bob is that he thinks I’m great.  Aside from my mom (and perhaps more so) there is no bigger fan of Wendell Robinson, Jr.  He is a great father and I love him because he didn’t have to be and he has.

The most recent father in my life is my wife’s dad - Milt Charlton. I don’t believe I’ve ever called him Milt in the five-plus years that I’ve known him.  Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve called ever him dad either - that’s something I better work on. 

Milt’s just about the best father-in-law I could ever ask for.  First and foremost he loves my wife as only the best father could.  When I asked him if it would be okay for me to marry his daughter, he had a little tear in the corner of his eye and his face broke into a wide smile - “yes, said” and in a quiet voice finished by saying, ”I know you’ll take good care of her.”  Believe me, I’m trying (although the reality is that she takes care of me).

Milt has opened his home and his heart to me and though I’ve only known him for a short time, we get along famously.  He’s taught me that it’s not what you do, or how much money you make that’s important.  What is important is that you’re happy.  And it’s this lesson that I hope to be able to pass on to his grand-daughter as she matures.

The thing I like best about Milt is that he laughs at all of my jokes.  He gets my strange sense of sarcasm and quick quips that many people find to be the ravings of a smart ass.  He is a great father and I love him because he doesn’t think I ‘m a smart ass.

On this Fathers’ Day, I have nothing more to give than these words.  I wanted to take a few minutes and tell anybody interested in reading this how incredibly lucky I am to have this bountiful harvest of fathers - I’m sure some of you have great ones too, but I happen to believe that nobody’s got a better group than me.

HAPPY FATHERS’ DAY to all of the fathers out there.