The Ash Creek Papers

First, I am not keen on this Father’s Day stuff. It is an arbitrary day (and in this case, a supplement to the earlier creation of Mother’s Day… itself another arbitrary day); and Father’s Day has become a spring board for commercial opportunity.

Thank you Hallmark Cards; thank you Father’s Day sales, thank you restaurants with special brunches.

But make no mistake… it is an arbitrary day. As far as I am concerned, if we are going to have a day for Fathers, I think it should be the Monday after Super Bowl… and that day should be a day off for all Fathers regardless of station.

OK… pick the day: the third Sunday in June or the Monday after the Super Bowl… what of the other 364 days of the year? Do we cease being proud Fathers of our children? Do we cease being Sons and Daughters following the path of our Fathers?

Second, I miss my Father. I think of him often, and luckily for me, he still visits, from time to time, in my dreams. There are nano-seconds when I first arise in the morning when I think he is still here… and not on the “other side of the river” as he has been these past twenty-two years.

Still, yesterday — being the “declared” Father’s Day — it was nice to associate the final round of the U.S. Open with all the marvelous Sundays that Dad, Paul and I played golf together.

I have never let my memory exaggerate how good I was at the game. Nor will I let my memory underestimate the joy I had in playing the course at Race Brook with Paul and Dad.

I haven’t played that course in 33 years, yet I can draw its layout off by heart. I have played just one round of golf in the past 33 years (at Shorehaven in Norwalk), and to be honest, I miss it not.

But I do miss Dad… and every time I pull for Tiger Woods’ success on Final Round Sundays, I think of my Dad and the fun we had playing the game. Yesterday was another Sunday where Tiger was in the “hunt”. I didn’t get to watch him play; but it didn’t matter. I knew he was there and I knew that Dad was probably lying on the couch watching some & sleeping some. Good for you Dad!

Third, being a Dad is a life’s treat. I pray that Zack will experience it, too. When I think back to my kids when they were little, smiles just flood my soul. Then I reflect to times when they went thru the “vexing” stage, and I scratch my head… “how did we survive?” But the sweetness I feel today as I see Zack, Shaina and Suzy maturing as adults is better yet.

There is a part of me that will always see them as little again, and there is a part that will deal with vexing issues that still exist, or will exist down the road. But I guess what I value most today, is that with each of my children, I feel safe in sharing how I feel. And I think they feel the same in return.

I no longer feel the need of projecting invincibility… or of living up to standards established by others.

I am not perfect. I’m no angel. I make mistakes. I can make bad decisions. Sometimes I can hurt someone’s feelings, even when I love them.

So… call it “letting your hair down”. I thank the good Lord I feel so comfortable with my children… that I can share not just my laughs; but also my tears… things that give be unbounded joy, things that make me despair… and everything in between.

I look for their ideas and their opinion. But more than anything it is their trust that I value.

Yes, I love sharing the full range of emotion that is a part of us all.

And part of the emotion is pride. I don’t need an arbitrary day of the year to give me that. It fills my breast every day… even on the dismal days.

So there it is. A day when the “powers that be” compel us what to think on Father’s Day… and yes, I admit, I think of it, too (in spite of the earlier impressions I may have given you).

But then again, on any day of the year, I never forget that I am a Son & that I am a Father.

How lucky is that?

It could have been my Grandmother Mommie Soph.

Except Mommie Soph didn’t drive a big fat assed red Cadillac… she preferred practical cars, like a Buick (in general she called cars a “machine”; but specifically the Buick was called Byurick).

And this woman didn’t really look like Mommie Soph. Her hair was white with a tinge of blue (Mommie Soph’s remained sandy ’til her end).

And she didn’t dress like Mommie Soph either. No. This Grandmother was certainly well turned out… white slacks, golden coloured top worn with a blue bengal striped over shirt (collar up, if you please, and sleeves rolled to below the elbow). I’m not big at noticing footwear; but I checked out what this Grandmother was wearing: white heels accented with swaths of the same gold as her top.

I could have seen her in Sanibel (the place my Mother would go to acquire sea shells and a tan).

Or I could have seen her on the Auto Train… that form of transportation that allows us to move fat assed Cadillacs from North to South in the winter, and reverse it for summer.

Or maybe I could have seen her at the Deli counter picking up some roast beef, some pastrami, a little corned beef, sweet munchie cheese & some half sour pickles.

But I didn’t espy this Grandmother in any of those situations. No.

I saw this Grandmother pumping high test into her car at Cumberland Farms (which happens to be the best price for gas in our Burg). Maybe if Mommie Soph were around — she would be doing the same thing.

I guess I am old enough to remember the days when no one pumped gas into your car; but the attendant. And sometimes the attendant would wear a bow tie as part of his “uniform”… I think it was supposed to lend a layer of “class” to the service (similar to boxing referees who do the same).

So, maybe this is all about progress. We have transitioned into a “pump-your-own” society. And that includes men and women of every stripe and of every age. It makes no matter today, we all do it… even Grandmothers dressed to the nines driving fat assed Cadillacs.

No. She wasn’t Mommie Soph. But I loved this woman’s presence and confidence. She needed no advice, nor instruction. She glanced at me perhaps thinking that maybe I was in need of help. And I could imagine that if she were wearing a bow tie, her next question could have been, “should I check under your hood?”

So maybe this is not about progress; but about empowerment. We are no longer dependent on some sub-altern to provide a service that “anyone” can easily do. You don’t need to be an accomplished mechanic to pump gas. I can do it. You can do it.

Even Mommie Soph could do it, if she were still with us — as improbable as that sounds.

And come to think of it, maybe all of this is not as improbable as your corner gas guy making gefilte fish! Now that takes superior talent and casual interest or ability won’t yield acceptable results.

Mommie Soph… I’m still thinking about you.

And I hope that is not improbable at all.