Admiring a man

I spent two hours on the phone with my dad the other night. It was a really good time. We talked about everything from gutters to acupuncture. We enjoyed ourselves so much that I was stunned when I looked up at the clock to find that it was nearly midnight.

I like spending time with my dad. He seems to enjoy spending time with me, too. My friends like him, and he likes them. My dad is easy to get along with, although I would have laughed in your face if you told me that when I was 16. Was it just that I changed, or has my father changed, too? I never used to talk to him on the phone. I spoke with him briefly about financial matters or when he picked up the phone and passed it to my mom. Mom and I would talk all the time.

When I confronted my father with this fact the other night, he told me that with Mom and me in the room, he could barely get a word in the conversation. My brother doesn’t talk as much as I do, but he certainly outpaces my father.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m less interested in what my brother has to say.

My father is a self-described good listener, and there’s no way to dispute that. Despite my mother’s loquacity, she was an excellent listener. It’s a skill I like to think that I picked up from her: the ability to make conversation with a rock and to listen carefully and with purpose. Real listening isn’t just sitting quietly while someone talks. Real listening requires ascribing value to the words someone speaks, whether the speaker knows the importance of her/his words or not.

My dad? He does that. I feel important when I talk to him. He makes my words valuable.