I sent Dad a birthday card earlier in the week, stressing in great detail what a sage he is now and that he has earned the right to demand more from the world. But when I spoke with him on the Saturday, he didn’t seem so convinced. Perhaps it’s the fact that he has reached this milestone and is still working, still grinding, still rising at 6 a.m. I know better than to ask if he’s still clocking in because of the economy or because one of his biggest hobbies, Nordic skiing, is in jeopardy of being completely wiped out by global warming.

Of course he has other hobbies, such as chores: sweeping floors; power-washing deck furniture; and organizing his piles of unread books, clipped magazine articles, and gag gifts for stoic relatives at Christmas.

Last year I gave him a bocce ball set for his birthday. When I was in France years ago, I marveled at the peaceful old men with berets happily playing the game in the parks of Paris—why shouldn’t Daddy-o experience such old-world joy? Unfortunately, he’d just had a hernia operation, so during the inaugural game, he tossed a little too hard and nearly put himself back in the hospital. Those balls are heavy, which is actually a good thing because they now make great paperweights for his piles.

So this year when my courtside Lakers finals tickets didn’t come through for Pops (they would have been for game six or seven, so it would’ve been a moot point), I decided to give a gift to his future . . .

If you didn’t know, last Friday night at 11 p.m. (CST), Facebook allowed current users to create their own Facebook domain names. So instead of having a faceless number-letter combo, such as www.facebook.com/ profile.php?id=123454321, you could personalize it to be: www.facebook.com/davidanderson. That’s right, I logged in right at 11 p.m. and got my own name. A David Anderson in Alaska promptly sent me a message inquiring how I’d beaten him to it. I told him I’m the now the God-anointed "David Anderson" on the planet and that he best change his name for fear of living in my shadow for eternity.

Once I had my name, I logged on to my father’s Facebook account (a Christmas gift from me a few years ago) and was able to get www.facebook.com/brianeanderson. Pretty cool, huh?

Of course, when I told him of his gift, he was pretty shocked.

“How much did that cost you?”

“Don’t you worry your little gray head,” I told him. “You were worth it. This is a gift for your future. People will see by your domain name that you’re a serious Facebook user, and they will quickly seek to be your friend. Soon you’ll be inundated with friend requests, many of whom will introduce you to new hobbies and online adventures. You’ll discover the fun in communicating with your new friends through 'tweets,' learn things you never knew about yourself from Facebook quizzes, and trade favorite iPhone apps with your burgeoning online community.”

“I don’t have an iPhone,” he interrupted.

“Well,” I said, “sounds like a good retirement gift, then, huh?”

There was a sense anything was possible; summers activities were, after all, endless and carefree. Tomorrow I’d be swimming at a city lake, squirting my Super Soaker at neighborhood dogs, playing pick-up baseball games. But at that moment, I watched the summer light fade, drawn into a Lake Wobegon story, lost in a narrative and a place that sounded like it appreciated summers just as much as I did. I felt safe in my world (something the school year never allowed for) and safe in the hands of a noble storyteller.

Of course, this memory would have to last a lifetime, because as soon as my sister learned to talk, she’d make the announcement in the car: “God! I hhhhhhhhhate that man.”

It is true, my Minnesota-born baby sister could not tolerate Garrison Keillor’s sonorous voice, his folksy music, or ambling stories.

And when she hit junior high, the hate turned into “f**king hate” which, of course, caused a serious rift in the Anderson family’s Saturday night.

Dad, who was a contemporary of Keillor’s at the University of Minnesota and the Minnesota Daily newspaper, almost took offense to such blasphemy.

After my sister’s declaration, my dad’s eyes would shift to the rearview mirror and he'd respond: “Watch your language,” or “That’s inappropriate,” or, if he was in no mood to parent, “Hush up!”

Mom would then twist around in the front seat and perhaps put a hand out to my sister and say in a calm voice, “There’s a better way to ask us to change the radio station.”

“Dad won’t change it. He loves this stupid thing,” she’d say.

I’d then chime in, “I like it too.”

“Of course you do,” she’d say, as if I was betraying my age.

She’d groan again, knowing she’d lost and say under her breath, “F**k . . . you guys.”

“What did you just say?” Dad would respond with gusto as if he was going to pull over the car but well-knowing there was nothing he could do.

The car would then go silent, save for the chant from the car’s speakers:  “Has your family tried them . . . Powder Milk.”

I tell this story because I was able to rustle up some tickets to this Friday evening’s performance of A Prairie Home Companion at The Greek Theater in Los Angeles. It’s a beautiful amphitheater nestled in Griffith Park, below the Griffith Park Observatory, and after a particularly difficult week (perhaps year), I cannot wait to see some golden-hour light glint off the city and surrounding hills; hear the old coot, Garrison Keillor, live; and hopefully find some of that summer peace, sans the f-word.