Now that my sons are twenty-two and just days away from turning twenty-six, I am feeling particularly grateful that they grew up with a hands-on, very involved and loving father. I can't fault him in the parenting department and I'm reasonably confident he would echo that sentiment in regard to moi. Which leads me directly into considering the near total lack of a relationship I have with my own father. There is the occasional phone call, always initiated by him. I'm long past the anger but that means I am also long past any real caring. I know that I still have this shadow of abandonment issue lurking around in the darker corners of my consciousness. My awareness of this shadow helps deflate and defeat it when it rears its ugly head. As of this month, ironically the very time we celebrate dads, it is twenty-one years since I have seen him. I've mostly gotten over the fact that he wasn't all that interested in the father gig, but what remains beyond my comprehension is his lack of participation in maybe the best job in the world. Grandpa.