When I was eight years old, I gave my dad a T-shirt with the Superman logo emblazoned across the chest for his birthday. The image of him wearing it as he mowed the lawn is forever etched in my mind. He was my superhero because he seemed larger than life and able to accomplish great feats I only dreamed of doing - like driving a car and hitting a golf ball 300 metres.
My 96-year-old grandfather passed away recently. In his eulogy my dad described him, not as a hero, but as a man who tried his hardest, made some mistakes, and always cared. But I wondered if, as a child, my father thought his dad was larger than life, too. I recall the stories my father used to tell about riding along on house calls to visit sick patients with his physician father because it was the only time he got to spend with his dad.
Watching your father heal strangers must have seemed heroic, because that's what heroes do when they aren't carrying out mammoth feats of strength and bravery: they help those in need.
Superheroes are as much a part of our culture as dads are. The way children equate the two is cause for pride - but can also put on a lot of pressure. The recognition in our adult years of a father's imperfections inevitably knocks them down a peg or two, but for many of us, our dads remain an enigma of strength, volatility, and amazing powers.
In the course of my grandfather's passing, I was on the other side of the globe, but in many telephone conversations with my father I heard something in his voice for the first time that sounded like helplessness.
There was nothing he could do to save the day or his dad. The villain was an aged body; the curse was a loss of time.