My parents live in Florida, so we don’t see them very often. As a present for his 70th birthday, my brother-in-law took my father to Newfoundland on a moose hunting trip. Successful after just a few days, they returned to my sister and brother-in-law’s house Petersham. (For comparison, Petersham has a population of 1,180, less than 1/10th that of Charlestown).

My brothers and sisters made plans to meet on Sunday for a belated birthday party for our dad. Great! Except for one thing.

I don’t own a car, and there are no subways or buses that reach little old Petersham. My attendance was questionable.

My dad had a great idea: I take the commuter rail from North Station to Lowell to pick up the boys like I do every Saturday, but instead of heading back to Boston, Dad picks us up and drives us out to Petersham. We spend Saturday and Sunday together.

Yeah, my dad’s a smart guy.

Smart isn’t a word my dad would use to describe himself. He says he’s not smart, he just thinks about stuff.

My dad is the best kind of Bostonian. He’s an old school Bostonian.

He grew up in Arlington. Not the money side of Arlington, either. His father worked at MIT; not a professor or an engineer, he actually built the Van de Graff Generator that sits in the Museum of Science. My father’s mother cooked things like liver and onions, and dumplings, for no other reason than that’s what they could afford.

Every neighborhood I’ve moved to in the three years I’ve lived in Boston, my dad knows each neighborhood, along with the bars of infamy within each. He has countless stories of fun (and fights) at these places.

No, he’s not an academic; he took a few college classes, but realized that wasn’t for him. He got a job in a machine shop because he was good with his hands and it was a decent paycheck. He left that machine shop the day he retired, 45 years later.

Growing up, my dad would always tell me, work with your mind, not your hands. He knew what I was interested in, even if it wasn’t that way for him.

He’s humble. I sent the photo above to Meg, and she replied, “Wow, he’s a looker!” I told that to my dad, and replied, “Yeah, well she needs glasses then.”

He reads more than anyone I know. Right now, it’s “The Brothers Bulger”.

His first marriage (where 5 of my siblings came from) didn’t last, but that didn’t stop him from recognizing and welcoming love when it presented itself. My parents celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary last month.

He’s not afraid of opening up his home to kids in need. He and my mother took in my sister and me, two survivors of a horrible tragedy that would surely resonate through our lives. Four years after taking us in, and one year after adopting us, my parents took in my little brother, another foster child with a traumatic childhood.

He’s a survivor in his own right. He has already had two spots of melanoma removed, and fought and beat prostate cancer.

He’s a senior citizen by age only. At seventy years old and retired, he works two jobs, cleaning pools and landscaping, back in Florida. He does it to help the old folks, he says.

He says he’s like a shark, when he stop moving, he’ll die.

He’s healthier than me (and probably you). During the last day of their hunting trip, they walked twenty. two. miles. If he can walk 22 miles in one day at 70 years old, he’s got it in him to live a good, long time.

My father is an amazing man. From everything I know of him, of his character, of the way he treats and provides for and protects his family, he is who I want to emulate.

He is my hero.