Father’s Day has never ranked as a red letter day on the calendar for me. Today marks something of a shift in that perspective. Today is my first as an honoree. I received some lovely photographs, a professional shoot of my beautiful and talented wife along with my beautiful and talented daughter.
I also played golf, poorly and in the pouring rain. So, yeah, terrific photos. I’m going with that gift as the memory.
There’s an alteration of priorities upon becoming a father. This helpless, needy, mewling thing is dependent upon me. And this time it isn’t one of my old beer buddies. Making do is no longer good enough. Selling a story isn’t simply a salve to the ego, selling copies of Reunion isn’t a mark of distinction. Instead the dollars matter, not as means of keeping score but as extra money in the college fund, a can of baby formula ‘cause we’re running short, a co-payment for a pediatrician visit.
So, Father’s Day. I think I get it: a token day of appreciation. I’ll take it.
Yesterday I attended the memorial service for the father of an old friend of mine. That’s the sort of thing that makes you consider mortality, your place in the universe. Now I’m a father myself. Closing the loop, I suppose, on my genetic imperative. At the same time it’s adding another link to the chain running back into the haze of history and forward into the unguessable future. One link: that’s me.
OK, I’ll take it.