What traits do you share with your father?

In honor of Father’s Day, I asked writers in my memoir classes to put together 500-word essays about the traits they share with their fathers. After reminding them that a trait is a particular talent, characteristic, quality, or tendency someone has, I gave some examples. “Do you and your father share a similar outlook on life? Did you both like to dance? Play cards? Read newspapers? Drive too fast? Tell jokes?” I wondered out loud if writers in my classes are stubborn/fastidious/considerate/kind/open-minded/short-tempered like their fathers were.

Sharon’s father, taken when he was in his 80s.

This prompt was difficult for many writers. Ones who disliked their fathers felt they had nothing to write about. Ones who worshipped their fathers said reminiscing through writing made them miss their fathers all over again. Most found that reading their essays out loud to supportive listeners in class helped them embrace what the struggles with fathers had taught them, and celebrate what strengths the fathers they loved had given them.

Sharon Kramer is one of the writers who adored her father. This playful approach she took to writing her essay helped her — and those of us fortunate enough to be in class and hear her read it out loud — smile to think of him. Now you can smile, too — here it is:

Just riding around
by Sharon Kramer

If I could paint a picture of my father, I would use primary colors with very little shading. I would paint a handsome man of medium height, a bit chunky due to wolfing down the foods he loved (which was all food) curly black hair and smooth skin that was envied by most women who met him — even into his eighties. He would be looking at you directly, with a smile that was warm but slightly controlled, possibly due to feelings of inadequacy because of his short-circuited education. He quit school at 16 to help support a family of 10 brothers and sisters.

In his right hand, he would be holding a 16-millimeter home movie camera ready to focus on whatever looked interesting — and a lot of stuff that wasn’t interesting at all. Scenes of his daughters playing piano, his aproned wife setting the table for dinner, an extended family gathered for a holiday. After the home movie was developed, we set up a movie theatre in the basement and laughed to the point of tears at seeing ourselves on a big screen.

The edge of the film had teeth that were supposed to fit into the projector’s sprockets but would often get stuck and need realignment. Sometimes, the film fell off the reel into a giant pyramid on the floor. My job was to untangle the mess so we could continue the show.

My love of the camera and the miracle of photography comes directly from my father.

In my painting of my father, his left hand would be holding a hammer and a box of nails, ready to use when any of his relatives or neighbors needed a quick repair — a squeaky door, a child locked in the bathroom, a toilet that didn’t flush. Although he grumbled about being asked to fix things (especially at dinner time) he was always generous with his time and skills. “He has more book learning than I do,” he might say afterwards. “But he can’t even fix a toilet.”

My respect for men and women who work with their hands began with my father.

My painting would have a table to the side with a large map of the United States and assorted yellow trip cards from the American Automobile Association on it. Whoever sat in the front passenger seat became the navigator and reader of the vignettes describing the places we were on our way to see.

I traveled much further than my father, but my love of adventure and travel came directly from him.

On a Saturday, my father might say to me, “Come on, let’s go for a ride.” I didn’t know where we were going, and neither did he. We could end up at a farm in Indiana, buying fresh eggs, or at a diner on the West Side of Chicago that boasted the best French toast in the world. These mini-adventures made me feel special, like a co-conspirator.

When we got home five or six hours later, my mother would scold, “Where were you?” Winking at me, he’d say, “Nowhere, just riding around.”

I loved having a secret with my dad.

Sharon Kramer compiles essays by writers from the “Me, Myself and I” class I lead at the Chicago Cultural Center at a blog called Beth’s Class. Visit there often to find essays by Sharon and her fellow Wednesday writers there.