Dad, You're a Coward!

(I’m ashamed. Deeply ashamed.)

The first episode in our series: “Regrets”.

So, it’s about 6 a.m. in the woods of upstate New York. John H., a genuinely nice guy of about 11 years old, is washing his face, head, hair and pajamas in the freezing cold river water. Why, you ask? Well, John had the misfortune that night to have been sleeping next to me, in his sleeping bag, on the floor of the tent we were sleeping in.

When I threw up on his head.

Now, that was horrible, but it was an accident. I woke up, sick, and promptly barfed. No time to get out of the tent. No time to aim. No time. Just barf. Everywhere. And poor John got hit with it. I apologized profusely. He was a good sport about it. Like I said, a genuinely good guy.

We were in the Boy Scouts, and our scout troop was on a camping trip. The Scout leaders said I probably inhaled too much smoke the night before from the campfire. That sounds kind of silly to me now. But, who knows? And one thing is sure – I was near the fire all night.

That’s because I’m a pyromaniac. I love fire. I love to build fires, stare at the flames and burn things. (Not like Phoebe’s brother in Friends, who “likes to melt stuff” – no, I just love to make fires — like bonfires — and watch the flames as they consume the logs.) Hence, why we have a fire pit in our backyard, and why my wife insists I use the cover, so I do not burn down the neighborhood.

But I digress. As usual.

Back to our story. So, the leaders decided I should go home. No argument there, except normally, that would mean calling my Dad, waking him up, having him drive a few hours up there and then driving us a few hours home.

However, as fate would have it, my Dad was there. On the camping trip. Sort of. See, I had asked him to come on the trip, wanting to share this father-son bonding experience with him. After all, the other kids had dads who were camping out with us, wearing their Scout uniforms. That was a bridge too far for my Dad, but he did agree to come on the trip and sleep over. Because he was a great Dad.

So, in the morning, after I have packed up my stuff, I drag my wretched body out of the tent and one of the leaders escorts me towards the parking lot. I assume the leaders have told my Dad and he is ready to pack up the car and drive us home.

But no. When we arrive, my Dad is asleep in the front seat of the car.

I am perplexed. What was going on? Hadn’t he slept in a tent like all the other dads? Nope. The leader knocks on the window and my Dad, startled, rolls down the window. The warm air coming out lets us know he had the heat on.

I am mortified. He is sleeping in his clothes, of course. And he had thought to bring a sleeping bag he is using as a blanket. It was a messy, ruffled scene.

You see, my Dad HATED the cold. HATED THE COLD. Always kept the thermostat at 80 degrees in our house. HATED the cold. So, although I should have known better, which I didn’t, of course he had slept in the car. Where it was warm.

Ok. I am embarrassed, but he was warm. Fair enough.

Dad sees my face, devoid of any color, and asks what’s wrong. “I threw up,” I say. The leader explains the general situation and says he thinks that I should go home. Dad agrees. You can tell he is now cold, but he toughs it out for me. Because he was a great Dad.

We drive back, and I ask him about why he slept in the car. He says he tried to sleep with the other dads in the “Lean-To”, which is a cabin that has three walls and so it is open to the cold. Basically, just a rain shelter. No warmth at all. But it was freezing cold, so Dad was not having it.

And that’s when I said it. “Dad, you’re a coward.”

Shameful. Not an accident. I intentionally hurled that insult at my Dad, who didn’t deserve it.

To his credit, Dad chuckled and said “Patrick, it was freezing in there. I need warmth. I would have caught my death a cold sleeping outside.” He was not backing down and he was not the least bit embarrassed or ashamed.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive. I probably fell asleep. I only remember it because he reminded me about it years later, maybe when he met my wife to be, and recounted the story for us. And he said it with a chuckle. He held no grudge. It had rolled off his back. Because he was a great Dad. He didn’t scold me, punish me, or let it affect our relationship. Because he was a GREAT Dad.

My Dad was a lion. He was strong. He was tough. He was old school. But when it came to the cold, he was a wimp. And that day, I was an ass.

I’m sorry, Dad.

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Copyright, 2026 by Patrick A. Fraioli, Jr. All Rights Reserved.