Father’s Day
When I had left home and was sending Father’s Day cards and gifts across the country every June, finding an appropriate card was always a problem. I’d stand in front of the Dads and Grads card displays in bookstores and newsstands — Chicago, San Francisco, Carbondale, McMinnville, Seattle, Eugene, I moved around a lot in those years – and for as long as it took, half an hour or more, I’d open and read every card hoping to find one I could send. I couldn’t send one of those you’re-the-best-guy-ever cards. That would have been so insincere as to be insulting. Then there were the we-had-great-times-together cards which, until recently, until too late, I wouldn’t think of sending because I mostly remembered our Saturdays on the tennis court with my father yelling at me after every shot. I remembered crying on my side of the court, happy at least that he couldn’t see the effect he was having on me. Now, of course, I think about the fact that he actually took me out every Saturday, that we not only played tennis, but in the winter, went roller skating and ice skating and bowling. He took me horseback riding. We stopped at Carvelles on the way home. We both loved chocolate. (Among my father’s dislikes were people who ordered vanilla ice cream.)
But when my father was still a Man in Full, when I was still locked in battle with him – which is to say, from puberty to about two years ago — I remembered our time together as stressful and unpleasant, yet another excuse for him to criticize and belittle me.