Today is Father's Day. A silly holiday, made up by a greeting card company to sell product. Such it is with most holidays. I myself am not a father, but I do recognize the joy that these days bring parents. When their young children present them with the little knick-knack they made at school or breakfast in bed. The card with the stick figure drawings of the big guy and the little guy. It's a big deal for Dad.
Today is my father's 38th such event. I'm sure he's awake right now, in his bathrobe and slippers, scampering downstairs to make breakfast for his 96-year old mother, who despite being of an eerily sound mind (not that it was ever truly that sound), is recovering from a fall. I'm sure his day will include reading the paper, having a nice chat with his cat, Goku, checking his e-mail, maybe a bike ride if the weather is nice. If he's lucky a swim. He may go for a walk and take in the nature in Ithaca. A trek over to see on e of the gorges maybe. His day will end with a wonderful meal that he'll probably pair with a fine wine. If he didn't already play it in honor of the summer solstice, Vivaldi's Four Seasons will play during the preparation of this meal. He'll watch a movie and off to bed. It will not be any different than any other day, despite the label appointing it his day. Unfortunately, his two sons are 200 miles away. One preparing for a wedding and the other typing furiously while also listening to Summer.
Today, I awoke and went to get myself breakfast. Down to Garth Road Bagels, a trip my father made numerous times for me. I wished I could share the meal with him, but he's in my thoughts. I think back to all those Sunday mornings where we'd have breakfast, then off to hit some balls, shoot some hoops, play some tennis. The rainy days spent in museums. The car rides that took forever, but would result in us coming back with ears of corn, maple syrup, and usually some useless piece of furniture or trinket my mother needed to have. Seriously, who grew up in a house with a dulcimer, a buoy, a human skull and a kabuki mask? These moments, some not enjoyed at the time, shaped my life. I grew an appreciation for those things that aren't standard. I enjoyed things that could be taken in without lots of money. I'd like to think, I'm a better person, a wiser person because of it.
As is the case with growing up. Things weren't always rosy. We had our disagreements. My parents were sticklers when it came to education. I could not just go through the motions. There wasn't a paper, a report, anything that wasn't checked. Those times were strenuous, but I look at myself now, and when I see how others spell, write, speak, I smile and thank my parents. They bit the bullet financially to send me to private school for as long as they could. Those five years made me more informed than any years spent in Eastchester High or Manhattan College. Then again, I could have never stepped foot in a school and been smarter than most. My father had so much to do with that. For that I am most grateful.
My father showed me the importance of respect, admiration, and appreciation of everything. I always said thank you upon receiving anything and didn't have to be told. My parents did it, so I followed suit. Moms and Dads out there...if your kid doesn't say thank you, it's probably your fault. Before I was ten I could tell the difference between a Merlot and a Beaujolais, I knew that escargot was delicious and that Johan Sebastian Bach was the Elvis of the Baroque period. As a youngster my parents would read a novel and then hand it to me. Maybe Requiem for a Dream as a twelve year old was a bit much, maybe my knowledge of limericks a bit too broad, and maybe my 10th birthday gift of a playboy with Bo Derek in it was a little advanced...oh wait, that was my grandfather who gave that to me! Regardless, my parents didn't put up walls, they let me crash through them. If I showed interest in something they nurtured that exploration. My love of sports consumed me at a young age. My father would buy me books, take me to games, buy me cards. I've forgotten more than most people will ever know about baseball. My father allowed me the resources to learn about these things, long before the Internet ever existed. Whatever I showed an interest it, my father would stand beside me and make it so I could know everything and anything about the subject.
My father also shaped many of the traits I posses. Some might disagree on the positive aspects of some, but I feel they are important and virtuous. Sure my father followed suit on the anniversaries, Valentine's day and birthdays, but my father would come home on a random Tuesday and present my mother with flowers, not necessarily because she had a bad day, but maybe because he did. He showed me that forced actions aren't that sincere, but when you do something because you want to, it makes it all the more special for others. He showed me that making a card, regardless of your artistic ability is the way to go. His humorous drawings were always special to me, although they all but killed my belief in Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy at very young ages. My father insisted that meals were a time to be spent chatting away about anything. There was no television allowed during meals. I learned more about life, history, and people's nature sitting at the dinner table, either with my parents or when we had company. I learned to eat what was put in front of me. Something that caused me great frustration as a child, but something I am most appreciative of now. At times it was torture, but when I look back on it I laugh. How many parents have you heard say "no television until you finish your osso bucco (or saurbraten or paella)!" Every meal was an introduction into another culture for me. As we ate, my father might tell me a story about the country or some great battle that took place on the ground where the wine we were drinking was manufactured. These are the things that are missed when you eat a meal watching repeats of Friends and Seinfeld.
As an adult, I guess it's sad in ways I don't have a little one to torture with wisdom like my father did for me. Maybe my brother will have a child and I can show him the things our father showed us. Today is a day for a special person. No coffee cup or tee shirt attributing #1 status is needed. No Hallmark greeting with a talking animal or play on his age will do. No, today doesn't even need words, because today isn't different than any other day. I don't love, respect or admire my father any more today than I will tomorrow or did yesterday. Today is the third Sunday in June. For nearly thirty-nine years I've been thankful for the fact that I was blessed to have such a man as my father. Naming a day for him, doesn't make me know that any more or less.
Thank You Dad
Today is my father's 38th such event. I'm sure he's awake right now, in his bathrobe and slippers, scampering downstairs to make breakfast for his 96-year old mother, who despite being of an eerily sound mind (not that it was ever truly that sound), is recovering from a fall. I'm sure his day will include reading the paper, having a nice chat with his cat, Goku, checking his e-mail, maybe a bike ride if the weather is nice. If he's lucky a swim. He may go for a walk and take in the nature in Ithaca. A trek over to see on e of the gorges maybe. His day will end with a wonderful meal that he'll probably pair with a fine wine. If he didn't already play it in honor of the summer solstice, Vivaldi's Four Seasons will play during the preparation of this meal. He'll watch a movie and off to bed. It will not be any different than any other day, despite the label appointing it his day. Unfortunately, his two sons are 200 miles away. One preparing for a wedding and the other typing furiously while also listening to Summer.
Today, I awoke and went to get myself breakfast. Down to Garth Road Bagels, a trip my father made numerous times for me. I wished I could share the meal with him, but he's in my thoughts. I think back to all those Sunday mornings where we'd have breakfast, then off to hit some balls, shoot some hoops, play some tennis. The rainy days spent in museums. The car rides that took forever, but would result in us coming back with ears of corn, maple syrup, and usually some useless piece of furniture or trinket my mother needed to have. Seriously, who grew up in a house with a dulcimer, a buoy, a human skull and a kabuki mask? These moments, some not enjoyed at the time, shaped my life. I grew an appreciation for those things that aren't standard. I enjoyed things that could be taken in without lots of money. I'd like to think, I'm a better person, a wiser person because of it.
As is the case with growing up. Things weren't always rosy. We had our disagreements. My parents were sticklers when it came to education. I could not just go through the motions. There wasn't a paper, a report, anything that wasn't checked. Those times were strenuous, but I look at myself now, and when I see how others spell, write, speak, I smile and thank my parents. They bit the bullet financially to send me to private school for as long as they could. Those five years made me more informed than any years spent in Eastchester High or Manhattan College. Then again, I could have never stepped foot in a school and been smarter than most. My father had so much to do with that. For that I am most grateful.
My father showed me the importance of respect, admiration, and appreciation of everything. I always said thank you upon receiving anything and didn't have to be told. My parents did it, so I followed suit. Moms and Dads out there...if your kid doesn't say thank you, it's probably your fault. Before I was ten I could tell the difference between a Merlot and a Beaujolais, I knew that escargot was delicious and that Johan Sebastian Bach was the Elvis of the Baroque period. As a youngster my parents would read a novel and then hand it to me. Maybe Requiem for a Dream as a twelve year old was a bit much, maybe my knowledge of limericks a bit too broad, and maybe my 10th birthday gift of a playboy with Bo Derek in it was a little advanced...oh wait, that was my grandfather who gave that to me! Regardless, my parents didn't put up walls, they let me crash through them. If I showed interest in something they nurtured that exploration. My love of sports consumed me at a young age. My father would buy me books, take me to games, buy me cards. I've forgotten more than most people will ever know about baseball. My father allowed me the resources to learn about these things, long before the Internet ever existed. Whatever I showed an interest it, my father would stand beside me and make it so I could know everything and anything about the subject.
My father also shaped many of the traits I posses. Some might disagree on the positive aspects of some, but I feel they are important and virtuous. Sure my father followed suit on the anniversaries, Valentine's day and birthdays, but my father would come home on a random Tuesday and present my mother with flowers, not necessarily because she had a bad day, but maybe because he did. He showed me that forced actions aren't that sincere, but when you do something because you want to, it makes it all the more special for others. He showed me that making a card, regardless of your artistic ability is the way to go. His humorous drawings were always special to me, although they all but killed my belief in Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy at very young ages. My father insisted that meals were a time to be spent chatting away about anything. There was no television allowed during meals. I learned more about life, history, and people's nature sitting at the dinner table, either with my parents or when we had company. I learned to eat what was put in front of me. Something that caused me great frustration as a child, but something I am most appreciative of now. At times it was torture, but when I look back on it I laugh. How many parents have you heard say "no television until you finish your osso bucco (or saurbraten or paella)!" Every meal was an introduction into another culture for me. As we ate, my father might tell me a story about the country or some great battle that took place on the ground where the wine we were drinking was manufactured. These are the things that are missed when you eat a meal watching repeats of Friends and Seinfeld.
As an adult, I guess it's sad in ways I don't have a little one to torture with wisdom like my father did for me. Maybe my brother will have a child and I can show him the things our father showed us. Today is a day for a special person. No coffee cup or tee shirt attributing #1 status is needed. No Hallmark greeting with a talking animal or play on his age will do. No, today doesn't even need words, because today isn't different than any other day. I don't love, respect or admire my father any more today than I will tomorrow or did yesterday. Today is the third Sunday in June. For nearly thirty-nine years I've been thankful for the fact that I was blessed to have such a man as my father. Naming a day for him, doesn't make me know that any more or less.
Thank You Dad
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