I worked this past weekend so I didn't reach out to my own father on Father's Day until Sunday night.
Naturally, no one was at home, so I left a message.
This post is from 2013 when I had a similar experience, and the photo was from our last dinner in Raleigh last year when Rebekah and I visited Sarah and my parents.
This post is as true today as it was seven years ago.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
So I Went to Visit my Father on
Father's Day....
...and neither he nor my mother
was home. This was unusual because, as a rule, my parents don't recognize
Mother's Day and Father's Day to each other (as they are not each others'
parents).
A quick back-up. Father's Day,
for me, had already been full. I'd woken up pretty early this morning to work
on a story, and left for church an hour early since Timothy was cooking a
brunch today at the Renaissance Center, and I didn't have access to a vehicle.
On those vehicleless Sundays, we ride with our assistant pastor, who needs to
be at church early. Once there, I talked to Sarah (and got waylaid by Timothy's
godfather who wanted me to chant the Epistle during liturgy), attended a
Father's Day brunch in the church hall, came home to write a second story, and
then helped Daniel finish a Father's Day brunch at the house for my oldest son,
who had both his sons with his that day. So when Christopher went to bring one
of the boys home (We get to keep the older one for another week), I suggested
leaving a bit early to see my dad, as he is humbly proud of having lived long
enough to see his great-grandkids.
Still, I (wrongly) assumed that
my seventy-nine, very healthy, and still working parents had decided to take
advantage of a very nice Sunday by going out to dinner.
Furthermore, as my father tends
to keep his cell phone on only during business hours, I (again, wrongly) knew
that a quick call would not disturb his dinner, but would, in fact, go straight
to his voice mail, where he could enjoy it Monday morning.
I dialed. It rang, and my father
picked it up on the fifth ring. I'm not certain where my mother was
today--she's employed at a gift shop, so maybe working?--because my father was
mostly certainly NOT at dinner.
He was about an hour away,
conducting, of all things, a home inspection. Not many people my age (I'll be
52 on July 15) can boast about having parents as "young" as mine.
So who is my father?
* He's a retired architect, one
that built up an impressive business. This included buying a large New Lenox
church and converting it into his and other rented office space while
maintaining the integral "feel" of the church (stained glass windows,
etc.). He held an exclusive contract for all the life safety work on all the
Joliet schools. He performed various government projects. He's now a consultant
to other architects and a certified home inspector.
* He's the oldest of two sons,
born to a prison guard (who walked to work) and his wife. He grew up in
Napanoch, New York, a hamlet in Ulster County. The 2000 census reported a
population of 1168.
* He's a Notre Dame graduate, one
who rented from a family in South Bend while going to school, skipping meals
when cash funds were tight. He didn't attend his college graduation because he
had graduated early and had no desire to travel back for it.
* He taught me to ride a
two-wheeler.
* He read every night to my
sister and me, him and the book in the middle, and she and I snuggled into his
sides.
* He gave us piggy back rides to bed before dumping us into our
respective abodes of slumber.
* He paused while cutting the
grass to show me how to catch and feed the enormous green grasshoppers that
leaped across our yard.
* He faithfully mowed every week
and pulled out the dandelions. He installed a rock garden and a metal shed in
the backyard.
* He put up a sandbox, set up
sprinklers for my sister and me to run through on hot summer days, assembled
and filled wading pools.
* He frequently took us to
Highland Park--which backed up to our yard--and pushed us on the swings.
Moreover, he drove us there, as the playground portion was nowhere near our
house.
* He could link his hands together to form a "swing" with his
arms as the chains.
* He fooled us into thinking he
could remove his thumb, a trick I've showed to everyone of my six children.
* When we went swimming at the long closed Michigan Beach in
Joliet--where a neighbor (deceased) was manager--he taught me the basics of
swimming, dog paddling and dead man floating. He also let my sister and me
using his back as a "diving board."
* He played old Bing Crosby
singalong records and taught us songs: Mairzy Doats, KKKKaty, Long Long Ago, My
Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, O Where O Where Has My Little Dog Gone, Take Me Out
To the Ball Game, Daisy Daisy Give Me Your Answer Do. These are songs I sang to
my children while pushing them on swings, at bedtime, or while driving from one
destination to another.
* When my sister and I were
playing dolls with our cardboard kitchen sink, metal table and chairs, and
plastic food to go with our plastic dishes, he'd surprise us by donning his
Tiny Tim wig and showing up as a guest. He'd sit at the table, "eat"
the plastic food, and play a plastic "badminton" guitar to entertain
us.
* He spanked us when we needed
it. I remember my last spanking. I was seven. I don't remember the infraction,
but I do remember thinking seven was too old for a spanking. My father
apparently thought so, too, because I never received another.
* He showed me that peanut butter and bacon go well together on hot,
buttered toast.
* When I was eleven, and he
rented his first office space in downtown Joliet, 325 E. Cass Street, the
former Relyea building (and George Relyea is now deceased), he brought me along
to help him paint it: the reception/secretarial area, his private office, the
conference room, the drafting room, the hall where all the files were kept, and
the room where the blueprint machine was.
* At fifteen, when the asthma I'd
suffered from my entire life was finally diagnosed, my father drove me into
Joliet from New Lenox (where we now lived) each week for my allergy shots. When
I was old enough to drive, he made sure I knew how to get there.
* My first job at sixteen (the
previous three years worth of babysitting didn't count) was as a file clerk in
his office. On nights he needed extra specs for a job copied, we'd stay
downtown after hours, eat in a restaurant, and go back to work.
* While working for him, my
father allowed me to tear apart and restructure his blueprint filing system and
create a library of reference materials. When I was in college and received an
"A" for an organizational communication class, he hired me to conduct
a communication audit for his business.
* When my three oldest children
were preschoolers, and my father still owned the former church, he would
alternate them as his office cleaning partners. They would help empty
wastebaskets for a quarter, some old keys, or the fun of copying their
preschool pictures on the Xerox machine.
* Today, he helps out with rides, He's driven me to and accompanied me
on various, in-person assignments. He occasionally takes my two youngest
children to junior college or to their job. For a year (just a couple years
ago), he was coming into the distribution center at midnight to help us roll
papers.
* He read all three BryonySeries
books when they were drafts. Visage was his favorite. He said he picked it up
one morning, and never moved until he completed it. He created multiple
displays for BryonySeries events, and even wrote a complete and bound
"home inspection" for Simons Mansion.
* He reads extensively and can speak intelligently on many different
subjects.
So how did those kaleidoscope
experiences enrich my life? I learned industry, the joy of reading for
reading's sake, innovation, entrepreneurship, creativity, self-discipline, and
decent parenting skills.
I can only hope my own children
will remember me for half as much. Happy Father's Day, Dad!
