Who Has the Final Say?

It's time for you to wake up, honey. You're back to doing it."

Trish, my wife, knew exactly what I was up to. The tremors, the sweat, and the tears had already told me what had happened. When I wake up from a nightmare, the strangest thing happens: I'm instantly transported back to being a scared small kid. My father was the ringleader of this recurring fright fest. If there was a Southern Trucker Magazine, my father would have made a great centerfold. His demeanor was arrogant, vile, and self-righteous, with a strong preference for amphetamines and Budweiser, and he thought I was always wrong and stupid. Someone who called me a "pussy" for listening to Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" instead of David Allen Coe's "If That Ain't Country," someone who gave up on using a belt and just kicked the heck out of me as often as he pleased. In the end, the scars of being a victim of a parent's fury are indelible. Even if you think you've adjusted and gone on, it doesn't matter. You can go from being a sophisticated, self-assured adult to a terrified adolescent hiding in the bedroom closet under anything you can find, praying, "Please God, just let him pass out this time."

When 1997 rolled around, it was like being hit by a hurricane. I could refer to it as "The Year of Hurricane Savannah" because the arrival of my daughter shook up our lives in a very unexpected way. We had no intention of starting a family because of Trish's health issues. Savannah, on the other hand, had different ideas. The prospect of being a father piqued my interest. Having a playmate sounded fun because I've always been a huge child. Being a father was only a formality for him. At first, it didn't seem to bother my kid at all that I frequently improvised in the kitchen. She thought I was the sexiest guy in town. Seeing the astonishment in my girl's eyes as I tried to escape the seventies was better than any medication I used to treat myself.

By the time Savannah was eleven, I had lost most of my coolness. Despite the fact that we had a wonderful connection, it was now my turn to be in awe of it all. I was taken completely by surprise by how quickly she matured. In order to stay up with whatever she was interested in at the time, I found myself having to keep up with her. The Disney Channel and Nick at Nite were gradually displacing me. Working night shift and tending to our farm were two completely different worlds for her. I began to feel unimportant, as if I had been demoted to the status of a water-boy after being cut from the A squad. There wasn't enough time in my schedule for me to devote to my daughter's pursuits. Our relationship was deteriorating at an alarming rate, and I couldn't believe it.

I was able to get out of work early one night about 6 p.m. I was ecstatic to finally be able to spend a Friday night in with my family. I came late in the evening in June, when the sun was about to set. On our hillside, the lightning bugs were exploding, and the temperature of the swimming pool was 85.5 degrees. Initially, I thought it was going to be flawless. I made my way via the back door and into Savannah's room quietly. When I knocked on the door, I yelled, "Get your swimwear, girl. Pool parties are back in style!

'Dad,' she said, 'not now'. It's a "Full House marathon" on Nick at Night.

The rejection was like a sting from a bee. Angry and furious, I stormed out of the building. What a snub, Full Stink House! I'd body smash Bob Saget and John Stamos if I could get my hands on them. I'm curious to know how she'd react to that."

Then it dawned on me: As soon as I heard the song, my mind immediately went back to 1976. "Born to Run" was playing on the old man's Pioneer stereo, and I was carefully wiping off side one. "Thunder Roadopening "'s harmonica solo had me eagerly lowering the record player's stylus. "What the hell did I tell you about playing that faggot stuff on my turntable, boy?"

My father's backhand slammed into the base of my skull, nearly knocking me out. The needle drove a deep scratch into the LP when I slumped forward into the turntable. To save my ribs from his size thirteen Dingo boot, I hit my knees and came to my senses just in time.... After that, I sprang up from my haze of nostalgia. Les, what are you up to? You've changed, haven't you? As horrible as my father's physical violence was, I discovered that his scorn for anything that was important to me was just as damaging. Because of this, I loathe him to this day. I would not allow my own insecurities to be the source of the same reaction in my daughter that I had experienced. I regrouped and returned to the house. All three of us gathered around the television, popcorn and cushions in hand, and prepared for a long night of binge-watching the Tanners.

I grew up with my daughter. I was her go-to guy for all of her new adventures. She went from Full House to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and from High School Musical to Hands All Over. I was able to witness it all. All the while, I was able to maintain my daughter's respect and affection for Maroon 5. To be honest, it's difficult to get a handle on every facet of Savannah life. I believe Adam Levine lacks the literary power of The Boss, for example. Adam, on the other hand, is like William Shakespeare to Savannah. That's probably the most valuable lesson I've gained from being a parent: If my daughter likes him, I do too.