Man, when I first started noticing how my old man rolled, it was like, almost… clinical, you know? Not in a bad way, just super methodical. Everything had its place, every penny had a purpose. It wasn’t until I got a bit older, started messing up my own life here and there, that I really started piecing together what that whole Virgo thing was about. It hit me straight on: practical and caring, just not in the way some folks expect.
I remember one time, my bike chain snapped right when I was supposed to be at a friend’s house, probably like ten miles away. I was fuming, ready to just dump the bike in a ditch. My dad, he just walked out, no fuss, looked at it, picked up some tools from his perfectly organized shed – a shed, by the way, where every wrench had a shadow board outline – and just got to work. He didn’t ask if I was okay, or if I was upset about missing my friend. He just fixed it. Took him like fifteen minutes. Then he wiped his hands on a rag, pointed at the chain, and just said, “Next time, check it before you ride. And learn to fix it yourself.”
At the time, I thought he was cold. Like, where’s the hug? Where’s the sympathy for my ruined afternoon? But later, when I was stuck somewhere with a flat tire, I remembered his words. I remembered watching him. And I pulled out the little kit he’d insisted I keep in my backpack and actually patched it myself. That’s when it clicked. His care wasn’t about soft words; it was about making sure I could handle myself. It was about equipping me. That’s the practical side, right there, intertwined with deep-seated care.
He was the same with money. We weren’t poor, but we definitely weren’t throwing cash around. Every bill was paid on time, sometimes even early. He’d sit us down, me and my brother, and show us how he balanced the checkbook, how he budgeted for groceries, for the house repairs, for our school stuff. “Money isn’t magic,” he’d say. “It’s a tool. Learn to use it, or it’ll use you.” He’d make us save a portion of any birthday money we got. I hated it then. I wanted that new video game now. But because of him, I started my first real job with a decent chunk saved up, just from those small habits he drilled into me.
And the cleaning! Oh man, the cleaning. Our house was always spotless. Not because he was a neat freak for the sake of it, but because he believed a clean environment led to a clear mind. He’d get me to clean my room, not by yelling, but by showing me how to fold clothes properly, how to organize my desk so I could find things. He’d even clean with me sometimes, just quietly working alongside me. It wasn’t a punishment; it was a skill. He was teaching me how to manage my space, which, honestly, translated into managing my time and tasks later on.
He wasn’t much for big, flowery declarations of love. Never really said “I love you” out loud that much. But he’d always make sure we had healthy food on the table, even if it meant cooking late after a long day at work. He’d drive me to every single one of my awful soccer practices, sitting patiently in the car, sometimes reading a book, sometimes just watching me flail around. If I got sick, he was the one checking my temperature, making sure I took my medicine on time, even when mom was busy with other stuff. He’d research remedies, compare options, always looking for the most effective, most sensible approach.
He worried. You could tell. Not in an anxious, panicky way, but in a methodical, preventative way. He’d ask about my school grades, my friends, my plans for the weekend. Not to pry, but to get a sense of where things stood, to anticipate any problems before they blew up. If I was struggling with a subject, he wouldn’t just say, “You’ll get through it.” He’d sit down, usually after reviewing the textbook himself, and try to explain it in a way that made sense, drawing diagrams, breaking it down into smaller, digestible pieces. It was his way of showing he cared: by giving me the tools, the knowledge, and the stable ground I needed.
Even now, I catch myself doing some of his quirks. I’ll organize my tools in the garage almost exactly like his, or I’ll sit down and meticulously plan out a budget for a big purchase. Sometimes I even hear his voice in my head when I’m tackling a problem: “Break it down. What’s the most practical step?” And I realize, all that practical, sometimes seemingly detached, approach to life wasn’t about being unfeeling. It was the deepest form of care he knew how to give. He built a safe, stable, and capable world for us, one practical lesson at a time. And looking back, that’s a pretty incredible legacy to leave.
