Given that this is primarily a blog bout my father, you would think I would have something profound to post on the day we celebrate, well, fathers. But, for reasons already dealt with in this blog, I don’t have a store of rich memories of my dad.
Many of my memories of him are filtered through my mother: “Don’t let your Daddy see that bikini I just bought you.” “Your Daddy told me to come down here and tell that boy to go home.” “Your Daddy would be so proud of you.”
I remember being very young, maybe five or six and calling my mother an “old hag.” She thought I’d called her an “old bag,” which I kind of liked better. My mother told me to stand outside and wait until my father came home — they didn’t call it “time out” back then. Whatever punishment was meted out for my rude mouth, I’m sure my father did not administer it. He never did. I’m sure he was pretty typical of the dad of the 50s and 60s. The strong, silent breadwinner and hands-off parent.
I’m glad I have his columns to explore. Through them I’m finding that Ebenezer and I are more like soul mates than I would ever have imagined. But when he was writing for the New York Age, he wasn’t a father. If he had a relationship with his own father, it’s not at all evident. I have no idea what he thought of fatherhood, in the abstract or the concrete.
We’re lucky to live in an age when men, including the president of the United States, talk openly about fatherhood.
So here’s to hands-on fathers – biological, adoptive, step and surrogate. It’s your day. Make some lasting memories.