I guess this is from last year, but I just saw it and got a kick out of it. Any of you who wear socks with your sandals or have wept over a Disney Princess will be able to relate. I won’t pretend this has anything to do with language, other than to communicate that simple message: Have a Happy Father’s Day. I’m hoping my sixteen-year-old puts in an appearance, let’s me cook her pancakes or something, and word is that not one of the hundred or so ties in my closet are wearable, so I expect few surprises under the Father’s Day tree.
To my fellow Dads, next time you are asked to crack that wallet, remember the gift is in the giving.
Surely my own Dad’s view. Now that he is gone, I dream of him constantly, the old swamp fox bastard deep in the woods, the only place he could be himself, a deer killer on the chase among the endless hills of Pennsylvania, in a dreamscape of rustling pin oaks and hemlock under snow. Silently he comes out of the woods, gun at ready, comes up close to me, and whispers, “Seen anything?”
Doesn’t matter whether I say “a flag” or “a rack” or “squat,” whatever, since he is really only looking for me, and I for him. “OK, keep your eyes open, I’ll circle around, see you at the bottom of the hill later.” Then he disappears into the laurel, perhaps the crack of a branch broken under his boot as he walks off, then nothing. Until the next time.
As I write this, I can smell that familiar scent of my father, of Winstons and wet wool, for just a moment, now born away again by a cold wind, as we walk along the darkening trail back of Blue Mountain.
Happy Father’s Day.