I’ve long embraced being a geek. It’s something I enjoy. Part of the reason I embrace it is because I know it does not define everything about me. I’ve picked up tons of things from my Dad. Every time he visits, he usually teaches me something else. He’s an uber-handyman, Mr. Fixit and amazing engineer. I can call him on the phone, describe a noise the car is making and he can point me in the right direction.
Although my Dad did read Uncanny X-Men and G.I. Joe with me for a few years when I was a kid, I would never have called him a geek. I do remember piles upon piles of old Sci-Fi journals, books and magazines when I was a kid, but again, I never would have called him geek.
However, that has changed. He recently sent me the photo on the left and it made me realize, he is a geek. He just geeks out about different things than I do.
This is a board for a game Carter and I invented one rainy day. Carter wanted to play baseball, but the rain kept us from going out.
We grabbed a dry erase board, some markers, a four-sided die, a six-sided die, and within an hour we had a fun and quick game.
The six-sided die determines if you get a hit or not. Numbers 1,2 = a hit, 3, 4, 5 = strike and 6 = pop-fly/out.
The four-sided die determines the number of bases your get if you roll a 1 or 2.
It’s all pretty simple, but fun and entertaining.
On our recent trip to Texas, I casually mention to my Dad—the night before we leave, no less—about this game Carter and I created and how he should make us a board to play it on. I quickly sketched it out.
Less than a week later he sent me an in-progress photo and this past weekend I get the completed image above.
Yep, he’s a geek. Give him a good idea and he makes it work. Somehow, if the internet were around 30-years ago, I can imagine him creating a site like Instructables.
It’s funny how much you pick up from your parents. As a kid, you think that you’ll never be like your parents. Later, you discover that you’re more like them than you’d like to admit. The final stage is realizing how proud you knowing they’ve taught you well.
I hope that my sons will look back on me (and Jill) someday with the same feeling.
