Today the topic is courage.

My father was not the strong silent type. No Gary Cooper, he. My dad had narrow shoulders (as do I), he was a worrier (as am I), and while he would clam up about some things (when we’d ask him if he’d ever smoked, or if he’d ever voted Republican, both of which he would deny and then stop speaking), he was not what you’d call taciturn. In fact, he was sometimes pretty expansive in his talk.

But I do remember being surprised, several times, by just how powerful his grip could be, and how much he could lift. In retrospect my surprise is surprising, even shocking, since my dad was a laborer pretty much all his adult life. Laborers get strong–and sometimes, also, damaged along the way. But before that, strong. Callused. Burled. So I really shouldn’t have been surprised that my dad was physically strong, even though he didn’t look it.

These days an even deeper strength comes to mind, one I didn’t understand at the time and only now, as I get older myself, begin to appreciate. That’s the strength you see in the photo below.

That’s a snapshot of a new father. My father. In one arm he holds me. I’m nearly three. In the other arm he holds my brother Fred, who’s not more than a few months old.

This new father is 53 years old.

Being a father is tricky. Being a good father is trickier still. Being a good father and starting on that path at the age of 50 is strong. Continuing on that path at 53 is stronger still.

So today, I remember a father whose strength was hiding in plain sight. Whose strength is visible in his utterly joyful expression that is also, it must be said, somewhat nervous. But then, courage doesn’t mean not being afraid. It means being afraid and doing it anyway. So I have learned, and so I remember as I look on the strong arms holding me here.

Happy Father’s Day.