By Robert Kirby

| The Salt Lake Tribune

Today is my father’s 80th birthday. Since neither of us expected him (or me) to live this long, some acknowledgement seems in order.

The old man was born in Idaho in the middle of the Great Depression, the fourth of five children born to Delbert and Julia, two of the most humorless people in the world. If not the actual models for Grant Wood’s painting "American Gothic," they were at least their stunt doubles.

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My father met my mother at a church dance in 1952 and bothered her into marrying him. In true 1950s Mormon fashion, they immediately had a litter of kids, of which I was the first and most disturbed.

My father and I share some DNA, a few physical features, and a couple of mannerisms. Other than that, he and my mom might have just as well selected their first born from an animal shelter.

The old man is conventional, respectful of civil and religious authority, unfailingly polite, careful with money and rock steady. I was/am none of those. I believe that the entire world, including you, was created for my personal amusement.

Despite our differences, he is my father. Most of the valuable things I learned in life, I learned from watching him go through the various stages of fatherhood.

STAGE 1 — Initially, I believed my old man was the smartest man on the planet. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know. He knew the answer to every question a 5-year-old kid could possibly ask, including, "How come Superman doesn’t go to the bathroom?" ANSWER: "Wiener of steel."

STAGE 2 — My father’s omnipotence began to slip when I was around 9. That’s when I figured out that not only might there actually be other people smarter than him, I was pretty sure he couldn’t beat up Mighty Mouse.

STAGE 3 — The old man’s mental decline continued into my pre-teen years. There was less and less that he actually knew, and almost nothing that he fully understood — especially if it had anything to do with me.

STAGE 4 — By about the time I was 14, my father had become mentally incompetent. If not a complete dolt, he was at least a mindless drone. All he did was go to work and do whatever my mom said.

STAGE 5 — Complete idiocy had seized my father by the time I was 17. He knew nothing about really important stuff like music, clothing, politics, girls and fun. I was actually amazed that he could draw breath without being reminded.

STAGE 6 — The old man seemed to come out of his stupor about the time I received my military draft number. I detected a glimmer of intelligence accompanied by what looked like a knowing smile.

STAGE 7 — After that, it was amazing how fast my father got smart again. By the time I was 20, he had recovered a lot of his mental faculties. He didn’t know everything yet, but he seemed to know a hell of a lot about what worried me.

STAGE 8 — By the time I was 25, my father was crammed full of brilliance about important things like parenting, finances and applying for jobs.

STAGE 9 — Full genius returned to the old man when I was 30. He was incredibly wise about the deepest mysteries of life, such as what to do when a woman locks you out of the house. ANSWER: "Stop doing whatever it was that made her do that." Seriously, who knew?

STAGE 10 — Today, I’m worried. Standing on my porch and watching him drive up and down the street looking for my house has me wondering if he’s not starting to slip again. If he is, it’s probably not his fault this time.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/notpatbagley.