This morning, as my husband read the humorous Father’s Day cards I bought for him, he laughed, but joked that the sentiments of Father’s Day cards don’t seem to carry the emotional impact of those for Mother’s Day. I had to agree, since I’d perused the card racks for weeks before finally opting for sillier of those offered for purchase. It turns out that it’s true. In 2008, San Diego Union Tribune reporter, Jenifer Godwin, titled her article, “Father’s Day: Even the cards are different.” She stated:
Moms and dads are more equal parenting partners than ever before, with studies showing men do far more housework and spend more time with their children than previous generations.
Yet Father’s Day still doesn’t inspire the same need to bestow sentimental cards, gifts and dinners out as Mother’s Day.
There you have it. Godwin cited a number of statistics to show the contrast between how we celebrate mothers and fathers. More cards are sent to mothers on Mother’s Day and more money is spent on mothers’ gifts. One more ironic note my husband observed was in the flowers, roses sent to me on from my oldest daughter on Mother’s Day and those she sent to him today. His were fresher and more beautiful. Why? “I think it’s because everyone sends flowers to their mothers on Mother’s Day,” he said. “The florists are in a rush trying to meet demand, whereas on Father’s Day, there aren’t nearly as many people sending fathers a dozen or two rosebuds.”
I think he has a point. Father’s Day wasn’t even an official holiday until 1972, when then president Richard Nixon made it official, over a half century after the designation of an official Mother’s Day.
Yet child-rearing has changed since I was a kid, and they were changing even as I reared my own children. There have been more than subtle shifts in parenting assumptions between mothers and fathers. I see it manifested between my daughters and husbands: a shared partnership of child-rearing responsibility.
When I was young, my father wasn’t as involved in our day-to-day upbringing as my mother, but his influence was felt in other ways. He provided the emotional glue that held our family together; he was an affectionate, easy-going, and fun-loving father who, whenever we stopped at his store to beg for an after school treat at the local drugstore , he always produced a quarter from his pocket. Sometimes, just as we were at the door, ready to leave, he’d call out, “Hey Kiddo…how about I come with you?”
He wasn’t hard on us kids,
never struck us, took us to
doctors and dentists when needed.
He used to sing in the car
bought us root beers along the road.
He loved us with his deeds.
(From: “A Father’s Pain,” in A River Remains by Larry Smith)
Dad was the father upon whose feet I stood to dance with him around the living room to a favorite Glen Miller or Benny Goodman tune, who taught me how to pitch a baseball and even execute a decent pass with a football– even as my mother wished I’d choose more “feminine” activities. A man raised by an exceptional cook, he never failed to praise my meager attempts to bake one of my grandmother’s famous berry pies, often with a too much flour and not near enough sugar. Even if the pie bordered on inedible, he ate the entire ample slice I served, flashed me a big smile and said, “My, but this might be the best blackberry pie I ever tasted.”
When my father died of lung cancer on Thanksgiving Day, 1992, three months following his diagnosis, none of his children were ready to let him go. The emptiness I felt in the wake of his death lingered for months afterward. Perhaps my father’s death—and life—is one of the reasons I gravitated to leading expressive writing groups for cancer survivors. Maybe it was because of all those afternoons I sat by his side as he prepared to die as he filled my head and heart with the stories from his life. Even on the day of his death, he managed to get to the table and, for a short time, share the meal with his family. He even asked for a second piece of pumpkin pie, smiling at my mother as he finished eating, “I think that was the best pie I’ve ever eaten.”
In a couple of hours, I’ll take my husband out for a celebratory brunch. We’ve already sent cards and made calls to the other fathers in our immediate family. But amidst all the celebration, I will be remembering my father today. In my mind, I still hear the echo of his chuckle, remember his love of a good story. As Jim Harrison wrote in a poem, “Larson’s Holstein Bull,” death steals everything but our stories. My father’s legacy lives on in stories, the ones he told and re-told year after year, the memories cancer can never take away.
I miss you every day–the heartbeat
under your necktie, the hand cupped
on the back of my neck, Old Spice
in the air, your voice delighted with stories.
(From: “Father” in Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser)
This week, write about fathers: their memories, the stories, and legacies. And to all fathers who may read this post, Happy Father’s Day!
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