My father walks with a cane now, after his third stroke in five years. He constantly remarks with a bitter laugh that if the Red Sox had that record in regards to championships, he could die a happy man.

Every so often, I’d see him place the piece of black metal against the wall and he’d shuffle his feet against the floor. Overly wobbly, he’d sigh in indignation and retrieve the walking aid.

“You’re going to fall down, Dad.” I react, standing at the ready to catch him should he stumble.

“The only way I’m going to get better is if I try. If I happen to get a few skinned knees in the process, I’ll wear them proudly when I can walk unaided.”

I have to admire his moxy. Sometimes being complacent is easier than running the rather treacherous gauntlet of fear.

You would think that after a child hits adulthood, they’d no longer need to learn from their parents; however some of the best lessons I’ve experienced in my short life, were after I turned 18.