Men's Journal

For father’s day weekend, we present a novel way to build a ‘life list’ — a favor they can’t refuse.

By Brad Wieners

Because of my gravelly voice, I’ve often been dubbed the Godfather. Yet as often as that has happened, the nickname has never quite stuck, and were you to meet me, this wouldn’t present much of a mystery: I look far more like a repatriated Viking or a Santa Cruz surfer than a mafioso, and I can’t claim a fraction of Brando’s charisma. (But who can?)

Nevertheless, I’ve been a fan of Coppola’s saga since I first saw it (originally to discover why some punk on the playground called me “Godfather”). A large part of the appeal of that picture for me remains its exploration of power, sure, but more the seat of that power: family, and family tradition.

If I’d been born into a family with a real, heavy tradition, I’m sure I would have rebelled against it, but since I wasn’t, I’ve always paid special attention to those who had intergenerational customs more elaborate than, say, baseball cards and new clothes at Easter. And I’ve wished at times for a clearer set of guidelines for how to be a son, an older brother (I was an only child until 14), a defender of family honor, a righteous and merciless assassin…

Lacking Corleone-scale traditions to pass down, my parents made some up as they went along. My father, for example, hit upon wilderness trips — backpacking, mostly — and our travels immediately developed their own unwritten principles, the first of which would have fit well in Orwell’s Oceania: Fun Is Suffering. The two of us — rarely was it more than he and I — nearly froze to death in a blizzard, became clinically dehydrated on Maui, and all but starved for three days when a bear found our supplies in the Sierras. But we also stood together atop Yosemite’s Half Dome, made it through Maui’s Kaupo Gap, and chased coyotes until we fell down laughing in Canyon de Chelly.

Until recently I’d forgotten about my longing for Mafia family life, and even the heartbreaking discovery that my dad had picked backpacking so we’d have something to do together on my school vacations after he and my mom split. But once my wife and I had sons of our own, the desire for tradition returned. What’s more, because fatherhood brought an absolute panic of vulnerability — no way could I bear losing my son, and, hell, I can’t die now! Who will show my boys Yosemite? — I spent many an anxious night thinking about what “traditions” I wanted to create. And that’s what led me to what I now call the “Godfather Project.”

One Sunday this spring I made a list of trusted friends and in-laws, and I assigned each a destination or an experience — something I knew they enjoyed or excelled at — to show or teach my sons if, God forbid, I get snuffed out too soon.

To my friend Marc fell the honor of showing them how to take a proper rowing stroke and how to rappel down a rock face. Todd is in charge of skiing and the exploration of urban ruins. “Brother Dave” — my wife’s oldest brother — drew the bleachers at Fenway; Michael, the Rodin sculpture garden in Paris. Then I put it in writing: a simple letter asking them a favor they couldn’t refuse. The list that emerged was little different from a life or “bucket” list but for one crucial difference: It named the people I wanted my boys to learn from. Finally, lest it seem as if I were outsourcing my sons’ childhoods (or had a death wish), I added a postscript to each letter: If I don’t die prematurely, I want us all to do these things together. So, let’s pick a year — and commit. ­

With son Gus, 2008. (photo by Justin Cash)

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This article originally appeared in the June 2009 issue of Men’s Journal.