Bill Crawford | Dads serve as home security officer | Opinion

I grew up in a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania. It was the kind of town where you knew almost everyone you met, and if you didn’t know someone, you probably had mutual friends or relatives.

We lived in a neighborhood where we all knew each other, trusted each other and never feared for our lives the way folks sometimes do in big cities. Of course, there was Johnny Dubrowski, (name changed to protect the guilty) who we were told to avoid because he would allegedly get drunk and slap his wife around, but I never saw the guy act weird or threatening around me.

Then there was Dad’s friend who would get soused every Christmas Eve and ruin the peacefulness of our evening by spreading his special brand of holiday cheer, but he never bothered us any other day of the year. So for the most part we lived a safe and sound life on our street, which should have allowed us all to sleep comfortably at night. Except I didn’t.

I’m not sure why, but I had fits of insomnia for a few years when I was around 10 to 12. I would drift off to sleep at the appointed time every night, but get awake around one or two o’clock, just in time for our old wooden frame house to begin its ritual creaking and groaning. I was pretty aware of those normal sounds, but usually two or three times a month I was certain “creeping marauders” (see “A Christmas Story”) were making assaults on our tiny castle.

I would lie awake for 15 or 20 minutes to be certain that I was actually hearing attacks on our safety. Is our dog barking outside? Is our neighbor’s dog barking outside? Is there someone trying to breach our basement door? I knew Dad should have put a better lock on that thing!

After an agonizing, and appropriate, period of waiting, I was certain it was time to take action. I usually woke my mother first. I knew that if I woke Dad first, he’d just tell me to go back to bed, but Mom would lobby for Little Billy and wake the old man up and order him to do a perimeter search. Plus, Mom wasn’t the one who would have to leave the warmth of her bed, so what did she care; This was a man’s job!

When Dad rolled out of bed to lead his oldest son on a quick, but always thorough, inspection of the fort, clad in his burglar-busting garb of boxer shorts and T-shirt, he always seemed less than gracious about being awakened from his peaceful slumber to check on his home, just to mollify the fears of his neurotic kid, but he did it anyway. He really was a good dad.

So, off we went — flashlights in hand — to assure the security of our humble abode, and for the old man to be able to put his wienie kid back to bed, knowing that another breach of our bulkhead had been thwarted, thanks to the alertness of Superson and his trusty sidekick, Superdad. All was right with the world.

Fast forward a few decades, and I was now playing the role of family protector for my 10-year-old equally-neurotic son, with just a few nuances of difference. We now lived on the upper floor of a split-level house, my 16-year-old son was the primary sentry for the bottom level, and the family dog slept inside. Oh, and the Superdad role, now played by me, was clad in a T-shirt, but sporting briefs, not boxers, underwear. Some things do change, but not everything.

So, what’s the moral of this tale of history repeating itself? Well, for starters, some neuroses are inherited, dogs are still a family’s first line of defense, sleeping in underwear vs. pajamas is still acceptable in many social circles, and kids will probably always be kids.

And dads will continue to willingly embrace the roles of protectors, so kids can still live happy, well-adjusted, comforting lives, free of bogeyman, burglars and creeping marauders.

Thanks Dad.

Bill Crawford is a LaVale freelance writer. His column appears in the Times-News on alternate weekends.