Last Tuesday morning, I needed milk and bananas at my local market so I went into to my car and—nothing.  No power at all.  Dead.  Immediately all my plans for the day went up in smoke because I had to call the Auto Club to jumpstart my battery which was replaced only six months ago.

I took my wife’s car and went to Ralphs.  Oddly, instead of going through the self-checkout as I always do, I chose the one with a cashier.  “How’s your day going?” she asked me as she robotically scanned my items without making eye contact.  (How many times that day would she press the play button on that question?)

Within milliseconds, two possible responses appeared “Terminator”-like: “fine” which was false but a quick way to curtail conversation or tell her the truth.

“Well, my car didn’t start so that’s no good,” I revealed. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  Her sympathy for me transformed this inconsequential exchange into something philosophical.  She wasn’t expecting an honest answer from a customer and I wasn’t expecting what I said next.

“But you know what?  My car didn’t start this morning, but I did.  And me starting is more important.”

She looked at me for the first time with her eyes widening and said, “You know, that’s right.  That’s a real good way to look at it.” 

I can’t explain how I came up with those words, but they flowed quickly out of me as if some other force took over my body, just as I can’t explain why I went to her instead of the self-checkout.

Suddenly, the black cloud was lifted and I felt much better exiting the market.  Today is a day worth living.

*          *          *

As I grow older, each significant day on the calendar rises in importance because the weight of a birthday or Christmas magnifies due to the decrease in future days to come.

I’m looking forward to spending this Father’s Day with my two sons.  It will be my 28^th as a father; I only had 15 with my dad before he passed away.

I don’t need gifts, cards or a fancy restaurant meal.  Just the boys.  We’re going out to see a movie and I will barbeque burgers, maybe play catch.  That’s enough.

My last column about Father’s Day was four years ago when my wife and I were about to become empty nesters, our two sons leaving within a three-month period.  Our oldest, 22, got hired by Goldman Sachs in Salt Lake City so was moving out within days; our youngest, 17, was moving to San Luis Obispo to attend Cal Poly. 

That Father’s Day breakfast at Lucky’s in Montecito was bittersweet so we had our waitress memorialize the moment with a photo, an item to go into the Crosby time capsule of our family.

Suddenly, four years have passed.  Last year, Ben returned to Los Angeles for a new job and a new life, getting married to our delightful daughter-in-law Azriel.  Max graduated last week and has moved back home.  We are no longer empty nesters—happily. 

One life lesson I’ve learned is that the stage in life one is living cannot be comprehended until one is in a later stage; living longer provides one with reflection on the past.

Everyone has a birthday, it’s not something that you control, it just happens to a person.  But being a parent is an intentional act.  Making a decision to bring new life into the world is a remarkable choice.  My life would not be as worthwhile without fatherhood.