Some boys are lucky enough to have something in common with their dads.

With my dad, it was war movies.

Most boys share a love of sports, a skill or trade, hunting or the outdoors with their fathers. I never gave my dad the traditional reasons to make him proud. I was never an athlete. I hated -- and still hate -- to sweat. I’m uncoordinated, which also nixed my musical aspirations. I played the saxophone in elementary school and by junior high I realized I really had no musical talent. I hated hunting. I just couldn’t bring myself to kill Bambi’s mother. Dad spent the first week of every December shivering in the woods. Not my idea of fun! At Scouts, I was teased and ostracized, so that was out of the question. My Scouting career lasted about two disastrous years. I would never be that Eagle Scout.

My dad was a mechanic - excuse me, auto technician - until he retired. He was always fascinated by the inner working of cars. We never had a new car when I was a kid. They were always older models that dad had carefully and lovingly renovated. He tried to interest me in cars. When I became a teenager, of course I was interested but only to the extent when I could borrow the car. When I was close to getting my license, Dad insisted that I learn ‘the basics’ of car maintenance; how to change a tire, how to check the oil and other fluid levels. For this, I bless him to this day.

He had a workshop full of tools in the basement. Sometimes I would go downstairs and just stand there, breathing in the scent of the grease, paint and freshly cut wood.

He was always interested in tools. I remember the time he and I went to Sears in Orland Square and we inevitably ended up in the tool department. He turned to me and said, "Tools always fascinate me. Don’t they interest you?" Well, I was too polite - and smart - to say ‘No way! I’d rather set my hair on fire.’ Instead, I stood there bored out of my skull and counting the minutes until I could get away to the bookstore in the mall.

Dad was also something of a handyman and when my parents bought a new house in 1972, he went about painting and wallpapering the walls as if he were an artist and the walls were his blank canvas. He filled the tiny closets with additional shelves and created two whole walls of shelves in the basement. He liked woodworking and produced bookshelves and even a cradle from his basement workshop. He stripped and refinished furniture. He was rightfully proud of that house and he stayed there almost 15 years after my parents divorced. But that pride also had a downside. He would never let me mow the lawn, for example, because as he said, I never "did it right."

None of this deterred him, or my mom. They still searched for something, anything, that we could do together. They still searched for some kind of common language in the form of an activity that would interest all of us.

My mom and dad did finally hit upon something that we could enjoy: camping. We did a lot of camping when I was a kid. We always had a blast. My parents purchased a huge, old-fashioned tent with metal poles. I can still remember the odor of that tent; mildew, canvas, Scotchguard, and humans. Dad had a folding ritual that to me resembled the reverence of folding the Stars and Stripes after Taps. Somehow he fit the whole tent in a military duffle bag.

To this day, I love camping and it spurred my interest in nature and the outdoors.

There was another thing that dad hit upon, quite by mistake, I’m sure; war movies. Dad used to take me to war movies on rainy Saturdays when he couldn’t get anything done in the yard or when my mom was satisfied with the wallpaper in the main bathroom.

I remember seeing most of the great, near-great and not-so-great war movies of the late sixties and early seventies with him. We saw Where Eagles Dare, The Boys of Company C, and Von Ryan’s Express. In those days before widespread video recorders going to the show was still a treat.

I actually liked the war movies, and still do. There’s something about a war movie. There’s the violence, of course. Strange that I, probably the most peace-loving person imaginable, would like the violence. The plot always moved along at a quick pace. No boring talking. And, of course, the good guys always won. I liked that predictability and Dad did, too.

I think the last movie we went to see together was Das Boot. It is a German film about the crew of a U-Boat during WW II. It was probably about 1981 or ‘82 and I was still in college and home for a weekend. It was showing at the dollar theater at Brementown Mall.

I suggested that we go together and he surprised me by saying "I didn’t think you’d be interested."

I didn’t think he’d be interested. The film was in German with English subtitles (it has since been dubbed into English for the video and DVD release.)

We both really liked it.

I graduated from college and moved out on my own and lost those times we shared in the dark theaters. When dad got a VCR, he rented instead of going to the theater. Dad’s hearing loss also had something to do with it. Even with a hearing aid, he found it increasingly difficult to hear what was going on. At home, he could adjust the volume to a level he could hear; usually to the level of a jet aircraft.

But every time I saw The Longest Day listed in TV Guide, I watched it.

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I inherited a lot of things from my dad.

I look a lot like him. When I shaved my moustache off last June, I took a look in the mirror and thought Jesus, I look just like him. I, like him, will be battling my weight for the rest of my life. Even though I’m going through a rough time in my life right now, I still believe in the American Dream. It’s the belief that hard work, truth and loyalty will eventually out. I got that from my dad.

But all my beliefs were shaken in November. Dad told me he had been diagnosed with lung cancer.

In the early 90’s, he bought a plot of land on a heavily wooded mountain in central Pennsylvania. He had been going there to hunt deer the first week of December for at least a decade before he decided to retire there.

I guess you could call the house a raised ranch with a loft. It was still unfinished when he moved into the ground-level basement/garage while the rest of the house was being finished. The house is some distance from the main road and he has to plow his half-mile driveway himself.

Dad has never been a communicator. And he is basically a loner. When my parents divorced, he never remarried and never even dated as far as I know. He lived in the house where we grew up until Dad retired in '96.

About a year ago, his doctor discovered a spot on his lungs despite the fact he had stopped smoking after his heart attack in the mid-eighties. In typical fashion, I found out about the cancerous spot from my sister.

The doctors removed the spot and that was the end of it, or so we thought.

He started chemotherapy in October. Of course, I know the effects of chemo. He's weak and tired quite a bit. The last time I talked to him, he sounded short of breath. In addition, his oncologist is in Altoona, an hour's drive away.

So I started worrying. Who's taking care of him? Who's driving him to his doctor's appointments? Who's plowing that driveway? Who's cooking, doing laundry, cleaning the house? His friends are helping, I'm sure, but they all have their own lives and families.

And so, I did a rather precipitous thing. I offered to move in with him. Logic always worked best with Dad and so I listed benefits for him and for me. I would keep house, drive him where he needed to go. My sister couldn't do this what with her family and house. My mom is remarried and living in Arkansas. So that left me. It would benefit me, too, I admitted to him. I would get a fresh start. It's clear that it's just not happening for me in Bloomington-Normal. I could sub part-time or even transfer with Office Depot or Borders. Lastly, although I didn't tell him this, I would be able to be there for him and the time he has left. I didn't want to live with that regret. I had to at least make the offer.

I was fully aware of the drawbacks. I would always be The Kid. It would be difficult bringing friends over let alone any kind of sex partner (not that I have so many offers these days.) I would be giving up a big part of my independence. It was not an easy offer to make. I had a lot to lose.

I talked to my sister and my mom about the plan and they both approved. In fact, my mom said she had thought of the idea a long time ago. When I asked her why she hadn't mentioned it to me, she said, "Sometimes it has to come from you."

But Dad said no.

If I had any doubts about where I got my fierce independence and lone wolf tendencies they were dispelled when he said no. Dad is not the most sensitive man in the world, but I'm sure he realized, however dimly, that I had to swallow my pride to make the offer.

Maybe he'll change his mind later and I plan on asking him again. One of my friends advised to just move out there. Maybe a lot of snow this winter will make him reconsider.

I’ll muddle through as I always have. Maybe this will give me the inspiration to finally get off my lazy ass and try to get something published. Maybe it will be the push I needed to make some changes in my life.

But I still worry about him. I think about him a lot.

And I wonder if he’s seen Saving Private Ryan. Dad would like that movie a lot. I own the DVD. Maybe we could watch it together.