The doctors in the hospital were worried about circulation in my father’s legs.  We needed to move pillows around, adjust things, even rub them at times. I never went so far as rubbing his legs, but I touched them.  My job—when he was awake and not on a ventilator—was to remove, clean, and re-insert his dentures.  We were never an affectionate family, so when I felt my father’s cold legs in my hands, I was uncomfortable.

*

I never thought much about genetics before I started getting older.  More specifically, I never thought about genetics until I started having children of my own. When I was growing up, the big joke in my family was that I was adopted. I was the last of four children, coming after my brother, Ira, who was my parent’s first biological child, and my sister, Michelle, who died at three months from SIDS. My oldest brother, Darrell, is technically my half-brother. I’ve never seen it that way.   Darrell is six years older than me and has struggled all of his life with issues of abandonment. His mother left when he was five years old, and she has never resurfaced since. Darrell was always attached to my father. He was Darrell’s comfort blanket, his favorite stuffed animal, his friend.

By the time I was born, life was busy for our family. My father worked at the airport from the early morning until mid-afternoon.  He woke up at 3am every day and was wiped out by the time he returned.  My mother stayed at home with her three boys, aged six and younger, getting us up, planning our days, cooking our meals, cleaning the house.  This was the early 70s, so this wasn’t uncommon.  Although, by the time I was in first grade, my mother took a job at a currency exchange and never stopped working.

The recording of my first several years was minimal.  When I was born, my mother started a baby book of me, which included my very first picture taken at the hospital, blurbs about my first few months about how I slept or when I first lifted my head, and a lock of my hair.  Chronicling my life lost its frequency and went unfinished.  There are a few pictures of me in various family photo albums and even a few 8mm silent videos.  One odd thing people notice is that I didn’t look much like the rest of the family.

Darrell had blond hair and bluish green eyes, and he wore a thick pair of black plastic-rimmed glasses.  Years later, whenever we would look through old pictures and come across a photo of Darrell, we knew exactly who he resembled: Ralphie, from the classic movie, A Christmas Story.  Darrell never objected to the reference.

Ira was always a chunky kid.  He was mistaken for a girl once at a restaurant, probably because of his long hair and boy-boobs.  As a toddler, Ira had very thick, very curly brown hair.  People always said he looked like the kid from the Oscar Mayer commercial.  You know the one; the cute kid whose bologna had a first and last name.  I always thought that Ira looked like Weird the Bellhop, one of the characters from The Gigglesnort Hotel.  Ira had to wear braces on both of his legs to help correct a hip problem.  He was the child version of Forrest Gump.  Ira’s leg braces came off with much less fanfare than how it happened in the movie.  No one was chasing him or yelling, “Run, Ira, run!”

I was shorter and thinner than my brothers, and no one thought my facial features resembled anyone else in the family.  That was until one Halloween, my parents suggested I dress up like a girl, complete with makeup and a dress.  After the costume was complete, everyone said I looked like my Aunt Denise, which was fine if I was a girl.  Boys don’t want to hear that they resemble their aunts—or any woman—no matter how flattering that might seem.

*

My father was a hairy man. He had a mustache at 13. And it wasn’t one of those cheesy, peach fuzz/pencil-thin/barely see it kind of ‘staches.  It was the real deal.  Think Burt Reynolds or Tom Selleck.  He was one of those men who could grow a thick beard in a week.  I’m not like that.  I’ve tried to grow a beard, but it just comes out all wrong. Patchy, thin, unappealing.

*

Whenever my brothers wanted to get me mad or make me cry, they would simply remind me that I was different. “You’re nothing but a nark,” they would say if I confessed to my parents when we misbehaved.  I had a guilty conscience—something my brother’s did not seem to possess—so it was difficult for me to lie.  “Why do you have to be such a jerk?  Why can’t you be more like us?”  I was different, my brothers would say, for only one reason: I was adopted. My parents were in on it too. They thought it was funny.

As I got older, I began to wonder if I was actually adopted. I wondered if I had to embark on a quest to find my birth family, to see if I could fit in there, to see if I had “real” brothers and sisters.  I might have even fantasized that it was true.  That someday I would find myself on a daytime talk show, hearing Oprah Winfrey or Maury Povich announce and bring out my entire grief-stricken family.  The family that thought about my whereabouts regularly, the family that continued living no matter how hard it was for them.  The family that liked to read like me, the family that liked to lift weights and eat healthy like me, the family that had brown eyes and thick brown hair, was slim, and cared about the food they ate.  The family I resembled.

*

Being hairy isn’t something I think I missed out on. I mean, my father had hair on his chest which is, again, sometimes seen as manly. But he also had hair on his back, and on his stomach, and on his butt. My father used to sleep naked when we were kids.  He never thought twice about walking naked in the house, as long as visitors were not around.  I’ll give him that.

*

I’ve always been the negative print of a black sheep. I was the only one of the children to like school, and the only one to go to college for both my Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees. I am the only one who converted from Judaism to Catholicism. I am the only one who hasn’t been arrested, who likes his job, the only one who has coached his children in sports, the only one whose wife homeschools their children. I’ve never thought it makes me better than anyone else. It just makes me me.

As I’ve gotten older, I have started to see things differently. Physically, as well as behaviorally. When my father was sick in the hospital—dying from pneumonia, a side effect of the chemotherapy treatments for gastric cancer—I noticed that we have the same legs. More specifically, we have the same calves. It’s a strange thing to notice, but when you spend hours staring at a person in a hospital bed, you tend to look at them, I mean really look at them.  I never noticed how round my father’s face was, or how many wrinkles he had on his forehead and around his eyes.  I never noticed how long and wide his ears were.  I never noticed the way his eyes, even closed the way they were, protruded so far out.  I never noticed how peaceful a dying man could look.

*

With all of the hair on my father’s body, his legs were probably the spot that had the least amount. It was light colored, almost transparent, and thin; barely noticeable. My legs are the same way. The hair is darker, but the amount is negligible. When I was a competitive bodybuilder, my calves were thick and strong; they measured 17″ around. Now, even though I still workout on a regular basis, I’m lucky if my calves are 13″. My thighs have always been thick. Still are. But today, like right this moment, when I reach down and put my hand on my left calf, I feel more skin and bone than muscle. And they feel cold when I touch them. Just like when I touched my dad’s legs as he lay in bed, dying.

Thanks to this tactile memory, I think about my dad more often than I expected. If I am laying in bed reading, and my legs cross, I think about my dad. If I have an itch on my leg and I scratch it, I think about my dad. When I wear shorts, I think about my dad.

*

As I get older, I believe I am beginning to look more like him, too. I see him in my expressions, in my short stature; in the way my body is shifting. I’ve even started walking like him, hunched over a bit, quick; like E.T.: the Extra Terrestrial. My dad had this thing he used to do—my grandfather, his father, used to do it too.  Whenever it was cold outside, and he had to perform an activity like pumping gas, he always puffed his cheeks up and blew out steady burst of air, repeatedly the entire time. I do the same thing, occasionally.  But my puffs come with more frequency.

In 1996, Darrell was the best man at my wedding. He had to give the Best Man speech. It was short and to the point, welcoming my wife, Cyndi and her family into ours. I’m not sure there was much preparation behind the speech.  Darrell didn’t read from a sheet of notebook paper or from index cards.  He didn’t have any embarrassing jokes or gestures to share.  He did, however, end with a simple proclamation: “You were not really adopted.”

I’m beginning to believe him.

There are two different projects to choose from: a wagon or a schooner. Your son is set on the schooner because he likes everything to be big and complex.  The ship meets his expectations.  This makes you uneasy.  You are not good at crafts and not good with a hammer.  Two summers ago, your friend Eric asked you to help him lay hardwood floors in his family room and you spent the afternoon bending nails instead of inserting them.

“How about the Pencil Caddy?” you ask.

“Nope,” he says, “I want that one.  It looks cool!”

You ask the clerk for the Schooner Kit and a fresh orange Home Depot smock.  You are not able to find the Sharpie to put your son’s name on the smock, but it is alright, because you know who he is.

Home Depot has five large workbenches situated next to the lumber section at the front of the store.  Each workbench consists of several horses underneath a very large  piece of plywood.  There are supplies available: hammer, paper tape measure, wood glue.  Some of the supplies are neatly placed in a tool caddy, while others are left unapologetically strewn about.  Guests are expected to share space with strangers.  You pick the spot farthest away from everybody else and begin.

There are 16 steps on the “How to Build Your Schooner” instruction sheet, and there are 13 pieces in the package: Base (Boat Hull), Cabin, Rear Cabin, 2 Masts (Long Dowels), Prow (Short Dowel), 2 Sails, 3 Finishing Nails, 2 Screw Eye, 24” Cord.  You will also need Fine Sandpaper, Safety Goggles, Wood Glue, Hammer, Scissors, Pencil & Ruler.  The assembly is as follows:

1. Sand wood pieces smooth with the wood grain.  There is no sandpaper on the workbench or in the tool caddy, so you have your son follow you back up to the craft leader and look through her cart for some.  There is also none on the cart. You become irritated by this lack of preparation.
2. Using ruler and pencil, mark top base 2” from the front end and 1” from each side. You look around the workbench for a pencil.  A large man with brown hair and thick plastic glasses who completed the wagon cart with his daughter hands you a black mechanical pencil.  Take a deep breath.  Even though you are not certain where to place the marks with your pencil, your son won’t mind if you make a mistake.  He is there with you and doesn’t care what the ship looks like.  You place marks with your pencil where you think they should be and get frustrated because you are not sure if they are in the right spots.  You think about starting over.  That is not the lesson you want to teach your son.  You scan the instructions for further assistance, and find the diagram on the bottom left of the page that shows you where to mark the pencil.  You have, in fact, put the marks in the right spot.
3. Start nails into the cabin piece. You skip this step and regret it at Step 5.
4. Glue cabin to base on the pencil lines. The yellow Elmer’s Wood Glue bottle is full and it is on the workbench to your right.  Your son grabs it and puts too much on the wood piece.  You place the piece in the spot where you put the (correct) pencil lines and the glue spurts out the sides of the wood when you press it down.  There are no paper towels on the bench so you use the plastic bag that contained the Schooner.  Your fingers get sticky from the excess glue and the bag is wet.  Soon you will realize that Step 3 was important.
5. Finish nailing cabin to base. Your son wants to do this.  Ever since you walked into the store, you have heard the happy annoying sound of boys and girls pounding away at their crafts.  Since you skipped Step 3, it is hard to start the nails on the piece of wood because the glue is not dry yet and the piece wants to shift.  Your son does not argue when you insist on starting the nails.  He takes pleasure in finishing what you started.  Make sure to hold the piece of wood while your son hammers the nails down.  Don’t worry he doesn’t hit your fingers—yet.  Once the nails have secured the two pieces of wood together, you notice that the pencil lines are still visible.  Don’t try to erase them.  That will make the glue and lines smear and the eraser on the pencil unusable.  You might want to consider painting the ship on another day so it looks like the display version.  At this point, you start using phrases like, “we make a great team” and “you are so good with that hammer.”  Your son uses phrases like, “Yeah, Dad.  Don’t we work great together?” and “I like being alone with just Daddy.  A guy’s day out.”  You think that you have never seen your son so happy to be with you.  You are encouraged to continue.
6. Make a pencil mark 1” from back of cabin. No issues here.  You have done this once before and can be considered an expert, especially in the eyes of your son.
7. Glue rear cabin at pencil mark. Your son puts too much glue on the wood again.  You make a mental note to either bring a rag with you next time or ask the craft leader to supply paper towels.
8. Nail rear cabin to base near hole for screw eye. Don’t just read the word “nail.”  They do not literally mean put a nail into the rear cabin to the base, which is what you have your son do.  As he does, he hits your finger with the hammer.  Your face turns red as you groan through clinched teeth, “Sonofa—“, cutting yourself off.  He apologizes.  Luckily it doesn’t hurt that much.  To make him feel better, you perform the trick where you pretend he has chopped your thumb off and reveal to him a thumb-less left hand shouting, “See what you did with the hammer!”  He laughs as he pulls your thumb out from the palm of your hand and rolls his eyes at you.  You shake your hand on his head, successfully mess up his hair and move on.  At this point, you think about stopping again to ask for another package.  Don’t.  Even though the glue is starting to dry, the nail barely sets into the wood and you are able to pull the rear cabin off the base and pull the nail out without incident.  The nail comes out bent, but you do not need it again.  It was only supposed to be used to score the wood and then be discarded.  Press the rear cabin firmly to the base without applying new glue.
9. Twist screw eye into hole on rear cabin. Even though you have never known your son to use a screw eye, he picks it up from the table without direction and slowly screws it into the wood.  Your son takes joy in accomplishing this task all on his own.  You will too.  With that small action, your son has shown you what it means to have craft competency.
10. Squeeze a dot of glue into the cabin holes. Your son does not know what a “dot” of glue is and since the bottle is so big, his small hands need to squeeze extra hard to get some out.  There is too much, but by Step 10, you are used to the “glue situation.”
11. Glue a mast into each hole. Make sure each mast stands straight up with the slot pointing to the schooner front. One of the masts goes in with ease and no glue comes up from the sides.  The other mast does not want to fit.  You now realize the purpose of the missing sandpaper.  You begin to turn the mast as if it is a screw and it gradually finds its place.  You need to use the pencil to make sure the two masts are level.  This takes two attempts.
12. Glue unattached end of prow into the front hole on schooner. This should really read, “Squeeze a dot of glue into the front hole and then glue the unattached end of prow….”
13. Slide sail onto each mast. There is a diagram on the page that shows how to properly attach the sails.  The diagram shows three half circles connected together on a stick.  The white flimsy piece of thick glossy paper they use for the sail does not resemble three half circles.  It is flat and has holes in it.  You walk with your son to the display models and take a look at the store’s completed version.  The picture is not three dimensional so it cannot show the wooden stick sliding through the holes in the paper.  It all makes sense.
14. Tie one end of the cord onto screw eye. Even though you stink at making knots, you have gone this far without using that as an excuse to ask for help.  This is the best knot you have ever purposely made in your life.
15. Pull cord from screw eye from across mast slots and through the prow slot. As hard as Step 15 sounds, you smile when it goes according to plan.  You are almost done.
16. Knot cord under the prow. As a new knot expert, this final step seems too easy as you step back and review your work.  Your son’s smile is as big and as genuine as yours.  You are now both schooner makers.

You gather your things and bring your completed craft to the leader for inspection, stamp of approval and receipt of the Home Depot Schooner Pin.  The leader notices your son’s name is not on the smock and asks him to spell his name (which he already knows how to do).  She tells you that her husband’s name is the same, with the same spelling.  You are invited to return the following month (first Saturday of every month) and feel encouraged to do so.

For this moment, you are your son’s hero.  He asks if he can hold your hand as you walk through the store, carrying his new ship in the other, not wanting to let go.  You will want to hold on to his hand also, forever.