In times past we have noted Father’s Day arrives after schools have set students free. Thus, on their designated calendar occasion, dads are not often gifted with the artistic expressions of tiny hands working in classrooms.
In times past we have noted Father’s Day arrives after schools have set students free. Thus, on their designated calendar occasion, dads are not often gifted with the artistic expressions of tiny hands working in classrooms.
That means fathers generally do not receive carefully constructed bookmarks, potholders, keepsake boxes, finger paintings, etc. Back in the day, I am sure many fathers would’ve treasured a clay ashtray lovingly formed by their offspring, but I’m sure it was the rare elementary school that possessed both the foresight and the pottery kiln to pull that off.
Traditionally, then, the paternal heads of households have settled for store-bought gifts, though they also get the priceless benefit of a much longer Sunday afternoon in which to savor their children’s adulation. Not too shabby a trade-off, I suppose.
This year I’m thinking about the salute that is due not only to fathers, but to those who step into that role when needed. I am remembering the uncle who repeatedly took me out on the rowboat until the day I finally caught a fish, almost losing a rod and reel over the side in my excitement.
I recall the uncle who taught me how to use a stick shift, never grimacing as I ground the gears of his farm truck. I think about the uncle who, after my dad had passed, made sure to ask fatherly questions whenever I would visit — how was work going, had I been keeping my house in good shape, was I saving any money, was I taking time out from my spouse and children — important stuff like that.
There were scoutmasters who patiently gave their free time so I could earn badges and participate with my pals in sundry activities. There were teachers who urged me to strive for more and encouraged me when I struggled. There was my brother, 11 years my senior, who showed me how to turn a wrench and demystified the components under the car’s hood.
Mostly I remembered my dear Dad, now gone almost 18 years. As I run up the count of years, and as the orbits of my now twenty-something sons grow more distant, I marvel at how gracefully my father filled his role.
Countless were the times he’d forgo an easier schedule to accommodate taking me to school, picking me up from sports or extracurricular activities, or bringing something I needed to where I was living. And countless were the times he wisely endured my adolescent petulance in silence, or freely showed how tender a strong man could be, comforting me in the loss of a beloved pet, a girlfriend, or a job.
He surely was not perfect, but was unconcerned that this fact was known and never failed to apologize when fears or frustrations put him in the wrong. Willing to own his own mistakes, he was also gracious in accepting mine.
So, on Father’s Day, here’s to dads and those who sometimes fill their shoes. And here’s hoping you have a chance to acknowledge them, in person, on the phone, or in your heart, on a long Sunday afternoon in June.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com
