February 9th

Way back, in the 1930's (when dinosaurs walked the land!), there came to pass an event significant, yet unknown, to me.  My father was born. 

My father did not know he was to be my father, of course.  He was just a boy.  A boy who was probably somewhat like my own sons.  Tho, allowing for their different eras, he probably dressed more formally, was more respectful to his elders, ate his dinner with the correct utensils & even (praise God!) combed his hair!

He had a life of his own, before mine.  He lived in a small town & helped in his grandparents store.  He delivered newspapers on his bike, like many mid-western boys.  He served his nation & went on to college.  He found a wife & a job & had children. He was a father.  He had done the things he was supposed to do. There are pictures of him in a suit (& a hat!) going off to work.  There is something of the feeling of a little boy playing dress-up in these photos.  As if he himself could not believe this was really him.  What happened to the boy on the bike?  Now here he was, going off to work with a family to feed. 

That is the space my father occupied during my school years - a place called WORK.  Where is Dad?  He is at WORK.  What does he do there?  He WORKS, obviously.  Why is he there?  So we can have food on the table.  He worked, mysteriously, for the government.  I used to entertain the idea that he was a spy.  (He wasn't.) Sometimes, we might stop by his office on a weekend for him to go inside & get something.  We walked down echoing hallways which smelled of old buildings & paper.  It appeared that WORK was SCHOOL, only larger, & someone paid you to go there.

At home, he was in the garden, which seemed to mean that even when he was not at work putting food on the table, he had to be at home doing the same thing.  He looked to be a serious guy.  We girls often tread lightly, "Don't bother your father!" What did he think about, our father?  Was he happy?  What did he want?  He was a man; therefore, he was a mystery.

Yet, while he appeared to be mostly a serious guy, he was also a funny guy.  We would catch glimpses of his lurking-under-the-surface sense of humor.  I can remember one time our family was walking thru the JCPenneys lingerie section when suddenly my father was inspired to stop & exclaim loudly in falsetto, "Pantie-Land!  We're in Pantie-Land!", while my sister & I cringed with embarrassment.  He often joked with cashiers as they were ringing up his purchases. They would look at him strangely.  It wasn't til I was older that I came to see that some people did not get his brand of humor. I felt somehow privileged that I did.  Like I was part of a club that was somewhat selective.

I saw him most often at the dinner table.  He & I would often clash at these times.  I think we were too much alike.  I don't know what he thought of my sister & I as we grew into young women.  My mother ruled all things concerning us girls.  My father was out there, tho, in the garden, at the office, putting food on the table.  My sister & I were not willing garden participants, much to my fathers disappointment. 

Later, he & my mother went their separate ways.  Now what were we to make of him?  He was not at the office, not in the garden, not putting food on the table.  How would we incorporate this new person who claimed to be our father into our lives?

What happened was that we discovered that our father was a real person, not just Our Father, Who Art at Work.  He started living his life, making new tennis friends, updating his style (I went with him to help pick out his first pair of jeans after the leisure suit days!).  He had a mild heart attack.  He ate black beans from cans to compensate.  He would stop by my apartment in college, use my phone for business, & leave 20 cents on the counter for the call.  My roommates would shake their heads, "Your father..."!

He is as unfathomable as before, only different.  Like fine wine, he has mellowed.  As I grew older, I developed a new appreciation for who he is & who he is to me.  There have been times I have needed to lean on him & he has been there.  When things seem to fall apart, he is there, doing something disarmingly annoying enough to distract me.  He still makes me laugh.  & that counts for more than can be said. 


It has always been difficult to get Dad a gift for his birthday.  Mom did it for us when we were little.  When I went out on my own, I took a stab at it.  I got him a nice sweater.  "Well, that's a nice sweater, but you didn't have to do that.  I have so many clothes I never wear."

Fair enough.  Next year:  "Well, that was a nice selection of chocolate that you sent, but I have to watch my cholesterol these days, you know."

Okay.  Next year:  "Well, that was a great fruit basket that you sent, but you know I mostly just ate the apples."

Ah ha!  Next year:  "Well, that was a really nice apple basket that you sent, but it had so many apples that I just couldn't eat them all before they went bad.  Now what am I supposed to do with all these baskets?  I hate to just throw them away...Do YOU want them?"

After years of defeat, I sent a card.  "Well, that was a nice card that you sent, but what will I do with it now?  You didn't have to spend, what, $1.50, on something I'm just going to throw away eventually."

Happy Birthday Dad!  Smile! This blog entry cost me nothing, except internet service, which I am paying for anyway.  Also, a bit of my time, which I am happy to give.  To thank you - for all you have given me...