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Tom Kelly
Tom Kelly
The Real Estate Adviser

June 19, 1998

Times at the lake bring back memories

By TOM KELLY
The Real Estate Advisor

My father never taught me how to finance property or look for a home. We never scrutinized seasonal interest rates, or shared any late-night anxiety brought by an extremely negative inspection report.

What he gave me were wonderful places in which to grow -- a terrific family home coupled with the anticipation of a variety of vacation getaways for two weeks each year. Nothing exotic, but I didn't know nor care.

The fondest memories of my youth are of warm days on those family vacations, simple, precious times when we were young enough that summer jobs, summer school and summer heartthrobs did not steal the warm sand from our toes.

Schedules didn't seem as necessary then, unless it meant being out on the water. I can still feel the old orange life preserver pushing against my face as I sat studying my father's hands while he rowed a red, wooden rowboat around a fishing marker on a mountain lake.

I was about five then and have been seeking similar days ever since. My search is partly the desire to give my kids a shot at what my dad gave me -- a taste of what could be just around the bend -- without forcing them to go there.

My dad's way of leading was definitely by example, whether it was at a lake retreat or in the backyard of our home. He gave us all enough rope to hang ourselves and I certainly took advantage of the opportunity a few times.

There were few, if any, mandatory meetings. He preferred to dispense any messages outside in the backyard, barbeque apron on and cocktail in hand. I learned more about him on hot summer nights, Vin and Jerry broadcasting the Dodger game on the radio and four marinated chickens on the fire -- make that seven if any neighborhood kids needed to be fed -- than the rest of the year combined.

Many times he knew the answer to what seemed to be a gut-wrenching dilemma, but took the role of a sly dealer, preferring to have me untie the seemingly untieable knot.

"You have a good head on your shoulders," he'd say. "Just do the best you can." It was immediately frustrating, yet eventually very satisfying -- and he knew exactly what he was doing.

He also knew how to be gentle -- and fun -- especially with his grandchildren. None of us, his seven children, ever met either of our grandfathers. Both men died before we were born. The wonder of experiencing a grandfather was bridged by my dad's interaction and interest in his 18 grand kids. Our oldest, Charley, considered my father to be the funniest man around.

He was definitely funny, using now-antiquated phrases like "keep your shirt on" or "hold your horses" when our kids were too eager to start a backyard ball game or dart to the table for a meal. I remember vividly how he tried to slow us down with the same lines, especially when we could not hold back our excitement on family vacations.

Nearly 20 years ago, my wife and I found a spot on a fresh water lake that we still share with another family. I was drawn to it because it was a compilation of the places my dad used to rent for us a generation ago. I catch myself saying "keep your shirt on" when my kids sprint out of the cabin to the beach. I like to row there and my kids sometimes study how I row.

I know they sometimes take those special days for granted. I did, too, knowing that somehow, someway there would be another special day down the road. Kids are like that, expecting perfect summer sunsets and immortality.

This will be my first Father's Day without dad. He died three weeks ago at 83 of complications of Parkinson's disease. And I will wish, more often than the one day earmarked for dads each year, for another moment in that rowboat with him.



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