Fathers' Day Thoughts

Today is Fathers’ Day. Newspapers have been running stories about dads for several days now – memories of great dads, what great dads are like, how to be a great dad, and etc. One piece that I particularly liked encouraged fathers to mix it up physically with their kids: wrestling with them, playing sports with them, encouraging them to test their own physical boundaries and to take risks. Another advised men to tell their daughters that they are beautiful and generally to take an interest in and support their “hobbies.” I didn’t see any pieces about poor or outrightly bad fathering. Not the time to examine those aspects, I suppose. I did think of a line from one of Leonard Cohen’s songs, “It’s Fathers’ Day, and everybody’s wounded.” Wounds can exist on both sides of the equation: adult children who harbour painful memories, anger, and resentment toward their fathers, and, fathers who suffer lukewarm responses or even overt rejection from their children.

I haven’t been reflecting too much on my own relationship with my father who died over twenty years ago, though I do think about him. In my thoughts and memories he is still very much alive, just as his dad, Charley, he called him, was to him. So often he would say, “Charley would enjoy that.” Probably like most people my relationship with my father was a mix of the good and the not very good. He struggled with his own demons but tried his best to father us and to provide in the way that was expected of the fathers of the 1950s. Undoubtedly there was much about my version of adolescence that grated against his own inner struggles. We were not close. My memories of him during my teen years are of a man some distance away – doing the yard work, off to a movie with my mother, not someone with anything to say to me. I took the brunt of his periodic irritability in sudden slaps across the head, usually for some outspokenness that he found offensive.

Just before I was to leave home the summer I turned 19, he came downstairs from his bed to tell me that he loved me and that if I ever needed anything to let him know. I remained fixed in my chair where I was studying for an exam and he returned upstairs. When he left, I wept. It was so very painful to hear these words from him. Nothing like this had ever passed between us. Many years went by before we were able to speak frankly about those early days. He was 75 and I was in my 40s. He had no memory of the things I was no longer afraid to speak with him about, but he denied nothing. With tears in his eyes he told me that if he had hurt me in any way he was sorry. It was so true and so real. I absolutely forgave him and was able to let go of those painful incidents. Since, my residual feeling about him has been one of affection.

I used to envy people who had what looked to me like loving parents with whom they were close. It’s an easy thing to look into another home, like the little match girl peering in through the window, and to see delights that are denied to oneself. I doubt that few people grew up in a home like that of Little Beaver. For most of us the blessings have been mixed: we were given what we were given and then we have had to deal. I got a lot from my parents (if I might say so without seeming overly boastful): a healthy constitution, good Celtic looks, some intelligence, a feeling for music and literature, as well as many other qualities which, as one says when advertising a garage sale, are too numerous to mention. Other less delicious pieces which have been handed down genetically: freckles, psoriasis, problems with the gall bladder, and, an incipient mood disorder. But more of the latter another time. 

Aside from their genetic contributions to my welfare, I also got lots on the nurture side. My mother was a strong personality in her own fashion. She was the dominant force in our household. As I grow older, I realize how much I am like her, perhaps more than the other kids, though even a decade or two ago I would have stoutly denied that resemblance. She was tough in ways that could be hurtful but she also had an inner strength that could get her through the trials of her life without ever giving in or giving up. My father, when not caught in his own tempestuous moods, exhibited a joy in life and an appreciation for sexuality that unconsciously taught me an alternative to my mother’s more stoic and repressive approach.

I didn’t set out to write about my parents this morning, but as we know, one thing easily leads to another. And so there we are, or, shall I say, here am I, on this lovely almost summer morning, counting my blessings instead of sheep. Happy Fathers’ Day reflections!