Diplomacy

My father gave me many gifts.

I have his eyes (I wish they were as blue as his but no complaints).

I have his smile.

I also have his temper and sense of -- how do I say this? -- self-loathing? self-deprivation?

But one of my favorite things from him is his ability to be diplomatic.

He was his own Switzerland.

I can still hear him, as Rome was burning around us once, looking me in the eye on a hair-brained idea of mine years ago, saying, "It's just not gonna fly, Wilbur."

I continued to make my case.

"It's just not gonna fly, Wilbur."

I was undaunted. So was he.

"It's just not gonna fly, Wilbur."

He won. My God, but it was brilliant.

He tried to patch up more splits than a seamstress.

And I love that ability, not that it always works.

When two people you know (one you're close to) get into a snit, I work to soothe it.

I grab a roller and smooth it all out.

Even if you want to go rip s*it on one of them.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I have the tell-it-like-it-is gene also.

The true gift -- curse? -- of such diplomacy is that it masks that ability of being able to rip one to shreds.

What I'm saying is, when I let that guard come down, I let loose and, normally, I scare myself.

So, I go the diplomatic route.

Anyway, I'm babbling because I'm teetering on this very thing right now.

It will cool down.

Thanks, Dad.