Father’s Day. It’s always been an
emotionally challenging day for me.
I taught myself how to read at three
because I noticed a pastel birth plaque hanging on my bedroom wall had a name on
it that didn’t match the pattern of my mum’s or “Daddy’s.” Letter by letter,
with the help of my naïve mum who had no idea of the antics I was privy to, I
learned to sound them out and write them in crayon. My birth father’s name
started with a C, not an F.
I launched an intense investigation:
Who was this man? Where did he go? What did I do to make it so?
The other kids in school made
Father’s Day art projects just before letting out for summer. Bastards. I would
quietly sit and fuss with the construction paper, crayons, or clay (one project
was to make ashtrays for dad. This activity ceased once people began to realize
dads were quickly succumbing to lung cancer due to our brightly painted clay
works).
If anyone dared to ask me about my dad,
I’d just say with a major attitude, “I don’t have one,” and they’d reply with, “Everyone has to have
a dad,” then walk away puzzled, confirming with one another that yes, I must surely be from another planet.
Thank
God summer was just around the
corner. I’d have 3 months to forget about the “dad” project, and an
entire school year until the next June, when we'd do it again.
Being that I was born a literal
thinker (meaning if someone said “hit the road,” you could guess where I’d
immediately be headed), it took me years before I realized I could actually
honor another for being a good dad. My grandpa, or Papa, as I’ve always
referred to him, was the perfect candidate.
I spent hours with him propped up
next to a car engine, watching him change the oil and spark plugs. I followed
him with my own miniature lawn mower when he spent Saturday mornings manicuring
his front lawn. I carried the paint bucket behind him when he painted the house
every few years. I ‘helped’ him with his crossword puzzles. He handed me the
funnies while he read the Sunday paper and we’d sit out in our lawn chairs,
admiring the incredible job we’d done on the yard, taking in the smell of the
fresh cut grass, and peacefully catching up on important news and less
important comic strips.
He’s still with us, thank God,
likely because I never made him an ashtray in the third grade.
