On Father’s Day, my boys took me out for a wonderful brunch, and we passed a few fine hours laughing, and planning for upcoming, happy events. I consider myself blessed to have such fine sons.
But I also spent a lot of the day thinking about my own father, who died in 1983, but would have turned 84 yesterday, June 21. And as I thought back, it occurred to me — again — that some of my best memories of him aren’t from the traditional “big days” — birthdays and anniversaries and the like. They’re from everyday moments that represent for me, not only what a great father he was, but what a great friend.
One morning almost 30 years ago, I went to visit another friend the morning after we’d stayed out too late, and probably consumed too much beer. I found him standing in his kitchen, wearing an apron, a mountain of dirty pots and pans surrounding him, and his face white from pancake flour. When I asked why he wasn’t in bed recuperating, he explained that his 5-year-old nephew would be there for breakfast that morning, and he wanted to make it special.
“You never know what they’ll remember as they grow up,” he said. “If one of the things he recalls of his Uncle Richard is this breakfast, I want to make sure that memory is a good one.”
My friend was not yet a father, but I’ve come to realize he was wise beyond his years and experience. Here, in no particular order, are some of my treasured memories of my Pop:
I hadn’t been driving long, when I got a speeding ticket. I’d been warned about driving too fast, and I was afraid I’d lose my privileges, so I didn’t tell my parents. I saved my lunch money and allowance for weeks, until I had enough to go to the courthouse and pay the fine. But when I got there and handed the lady the ticket, she broke into a grin. “Your father paid that two weeks ago,” she said. “He said that when you showed up, we should tell you to slow down.”
I was working as a reporter, and for some unknown reason I had agreed to take part in a charity pie-eating contest at a mall. Since it was sponsored by the local television station, and I knew my goop-smeared mug would likely end up on that evening’s newscast, I didn’t invite any friends or family to attend because of the potential embarrassment factor. It wasn’t until I’d finished half of my first pie — we weren’t allowed to use our hands — that I heard a familiar voice in the back of the crowd singing the University of Wyoming fight song, “Ragtime Cowboy Joe.” And when I looked up, there was my father, trying to start a wave. When it was over, he left before I could seek him out, and we never spoke of it again.
When I was in graduate school, I was studying to get an advanced degree in English, and for fun, I was a member of a small group of grad students who would get together once in a while to eat spaghetti, drink cheap wine and read each other the abominable poetry we wrote. I don’t remember telling my father that I was scheduled to read on a certain night, and I was dumfounded to see him walk in just before I took the overstuffed chair that served as a podium, carrying several bottles of wine that none of us could afford and a shopping bag full of desserts. “Let’s hear some damned poetry!” he said, smiling. He’d driven 200 miles, in a Wyoming snowstorm, at night, to hear me read two poorly written poems. Before he left town the next
morning, he bought me enough groceries to last a month.
My mother was a great cook, but she made a few dishes none of us cared for. One of them was breaded, fried salmon patties, with fish from a can since we couldn’t get the fresh variety that far from the ocean. On one day when we knew that dish was on the evening menu, I was happy when he unexpectedly turned up to pick me up at school, and delighted when we drove to a local drive-in, where the specialties were hand-cut french fries and incredibly greasy cheeseburgers. We ordered a couple and enjoyed every bite. “Don’t tell your Mom,” he said as we were wiping our lips. “And make sure you eat enough salmon that she doesn’t suspect. Tell her it was wonderful.” I swore secrecy. “Want another?” he asked.
When he was hospitalized for the last time for the cancer that would take his life, he knew he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to the young grandchildren he loved so much. At that time, children under a certain age weren’t allowed to visit patients in the hospital for any reason. When I arrived for visiting hours on his last morning, he could barely talk, but he pressed something into my hand. “That’s for you, and Linda, and the boys,” he said. “Don’t be sad.” On toilet paper, the only writing material he could reach, he’d spent long hours throughout the night drawing a detailed cartoon story for us — I think the narrator was Donald Duck — about everything he still wanted to do with our family, but would never get the chance. Since he couldn’t take those wonderful trips and have those adventures with us in person, however, he hoped we could do them together in our imaginations, using the drawings as a road map. That toilet paper cartoon is one of our most cherished family possessions.
I’ve got more of those memories, hundreds of them in fact, but you get the point. I hope you have some of your own. Happy belated Father’s Day, Pop. And thanks for the memories.
Gregory Bean is the former executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at [email protected].