Happy Father's Day

Here is a true story, and I know it’s true because it happened in a church: at my father’s funeral, which was held in the second week of January, Father Lumph gave a long-ass sermon about how Christmas was now and forever ruined for my family. Ruined! And my family was in the front two rows of the church just kind of looking at each other like, “Wha? Christmas is ruined?” Because, to our recollection, we’d gotten through Christmas AND New Year’s Day with the old man just fine. Now if you were to ask me if January 8th was forever ruined, I would have to say yes, but Christmas? Hm.

Anyway, I’m saying all of that as an intro to the fact that, not only is Christmas not ruined, but Father’s Day is also not ruined, despite the fact that my father is no longer around to bask in all of its glory. If he were still here, his eight kids would have showered him with the same things he asked for every year: Meijer gift cards, batteries, and light bulbs. He’d built up enough of a stockpile of those items that, had we all had a mind to live in a house run on batteries, 75 watt light bulbs, and things you could get at Meijer, we would have been comfortable for about ten years. If he were still here, he would have made us figure out the logistical nightmare of getting fifteen or sixteen people around a dining room table made for no more than eight. And he would have said, as he said more and more frequently the older he got, that he was just so happy to have my mom as his wife.

And he was. As my brother said during my dad’s eulogy, my parents’ marriage was a rock. And despite the fact that I’ve been telling people that my mom has been on Match.com AND Christian Mingle since February, the fact is that they had marriage figured out. I have always credited this to separate bank accounts and kissing each other each morning and each night for the duration of their 50-some-year marriage, but it could have just has easily been the fact that my dad rarely complained about my mom smoking, and my mom rarely complained about my dad farting.

In any event, the man built a damn good life for the people who loved him to remember. And while I can’t speak for my siblings, I know that, for me, grief hasn’t been a completely terrible thing. Now, I’m not trying to say it’s been a fucking hoot either, but every time I start crying because something touches a memory, it’s tears that are built on a wealth of memories – how he would sign all of his cards, “D.A.D.,” or how he would say, “You know me… I’m easy to get along with,” when what he really meant was that he was tired of dealing with your bullshit, or how, at about this time of year, he would be tending his garden and already be talking about the Buckeyes’ football prospects. And working through grief is not all tears.  Sometimes it's sharing hilarious memories, like the day I told my friend Trisha about the summer my dad decided to grow pot as an “experiment” in the back yard, and how it mysteriously disappeared when in full bloom.  And how my brother, when cleaning out one of my dad's cupboards, found a 35 or more year-old bag of pot, practically turned to dust, stowed away behind some old highball glasses.  It was a good thing to hear Trisha say, "Your Dad stories are the best." 

So, this Father’s Day, as my family spends our first year emphatically NOT having our day ruined, despite Father Lumph’s best efforts, I send out a sincere hope that all of the dads of the world will get their equivalent of Meijer gift cards, light bulbs, and batteries, as a token of the love and appreciation that their children have for them. And to those sons and daughters who have the opportunity: I really hope you enjoy this Father's Day. 








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