Just Like My Dad

     I've always been a lot like my mom--small in stature, introverted, self-conscious in groups, and a little too quick to find something I'm dissatisfied with or worried about.  My dad, on the other hand, was portly, a people person, and completely content with all aspects of his unassuming life--including me.  I adored him.
     As a kid, I tried to be more like him.  I went to White Sox games instead of shopping, practiced softball more than piano, and collected autographs of major league players instead of movie stars.  I avoided the hard classes, reined in ambition, and on almost every night during my last years of high school I watched Johnny Carson with him.
     We had our regular seats.  Dad's was a big brown plaid recliner that I never had enough heft to make recline.  The fabric was worn in patches and the arms were smudged with grease that the Lava soap didn't reach and that Dad brought home every day from the chemical plant where he worked from my birth until his retirement.
     Mine was Mom's stuffed, blue tweed rocker that sat to the left of Dad's chair, separated by a lamp table that allowed them both to read their library books at night.  By the time Johnny came on Mom had usually vacated the chair and moved to the couch, where she'd recline and fall asleep with an open book by her side.  On the few occasions when she stayed awake, I'd lay down on the shag carpet directly in front of the console TV, with Dad at my back.
     Dad almost always had a crossword puzzle that he would work on during the show and I had Dad.  It was a more insular world back then and not a lot of popular culture reached our small rural town.  With only three TV stations and sporadic radio reception, I didn't know the majority of the guests. As they were making their entrance, Dad would patiently explain who they were and why they were famous, often adding a little of his own history to their stories.
     We each had our favorites.  Mine was an author, whose name I don't remember, but who was urbane and witty and always brought along his Asian wife, who was both exotic and gorgeous.  Dad liked anyone who was connected to sports or the big bands, but also had a particular fondness for Angie Dickinson, who never failed at getting him to set down that crossword.  We both liked the new comedians and Carmac the Magnificent, and rarely missed the opening monologue.
     Sometimes Dad would get up during a commercial to make us popcorn.  And sometimes, I would get up and bring back ice cream.  But more often than not we didn't need anything besides each other's company. It was an hour and a half each night where I was completely content--and just a little bit like my dad.