Harold Burton (Dad) with his three sons, Steven, Gregory and Scott (left to right).
For the better part of two decades, Dad steered our family from the wheel of a station wagon. It was our carriage to church. Our taxi to the movies. Our cargo ship to camp. Our lift to Yellowstone and Crazy Horse and Mount Rainier.
We discovered America in that station wagon.
Steven, Scott and I took measure of each other and tested our brotherhood in the backseat. We studied Dad navigating maps and Mom calming his nerves.
When it was time to replace the wagon, Dad bought a Dodge Dart. It was the height of panic during the last great oil crisis, and Darts were equipped with a warning system if you accelerated too fast.
Only a mother of teenagers could love this car.
Fortunately for my dating life, my brothers moved on to college and Dad splurged on the most luxurious car we would ever own — a maroon Buick Regal. It had power and style. This was a car you picked your boss up in. You bought flowers and drove your wife to dinner in a Buick Regal.
And when the last boy at home needed to pick up his Homecoming date, you handed the Regal’s keys to a 16-year-old.
Fatherhood is a humbling thing.
I pulled away as Dad disappeared in the rear-view mirror.
My date wore a flowing pink gown. I wore a powder blue tuxedo.
It was around midnight when I high-centered Dad’s long, beautiful Buick on the tracks of a freight line in Renton’s industrial core. The next train was 30 minutes away.
The police arrived. My date’s parents. A tow truck.
It’s all pretty foggy. There were flashing lights and low conversations I couldn’t make out.
Eventually, in the moonlight, it was just Dad and I.
Yes, Dad, I’d had a few drinks. Got lost. Tried to turn around.
Sorry.
Dad could be intimidating. He did not hide frustration well.
Mom was the child whisperer, the confidant, the soother.
Dad was the storyteller. The schedule keeper. The lesson to be learned.
On this night, he said very little. He rarely mentioned that night again.
As we watched the Buick roll away, he put his hand on my shoulder.
He gave it a squeeze.
We went home.
A year and a half ago, on the night of Dad’s stroke, he called me from the hospital. He slurred his words, but he seemed anxious to speak.
We talked about kids and his books and the night I almost destroyed the Buick. In the months that followed, Dad talked about events I’d long forgotten. He’d sing lines of verse I hadn’t heard in decades. He seemed to be reviewing all of his 91 years, testing his memory and weighing the consequences of his decisions.
At the end of someone’s life, we take account of big moments: College; Marriage; Children; Stature. But it’s the little things that truly matter. The silent gestures. The quiet forgiveness. The daily acts of human kindness that improve the lives of the people we leave behind.
My brothers and I had idyllic childhoods because our Dad did a million small things right.
He’d been right, I told him, to quietly reassure his son by the railroad tracks.
I’m a father now, too.
I’ve handed my children the keys to the car. I’ve prayed for their safety. I’ve asked for forgiveness for my frustrations, which I don’t hide well, either.
Fatherhood is a humbling thing.
In his final hours, I put my hand on Dad’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze and thanked him for the lessons.
May we all be so blessed.
Greg Burton is the executive editor of The Arizona Republic and azcentral.com.
This article originally appeared on Arizona Republic: For Dad, the little things mattered more than the big moments
