Father's Day Vignettes

I'm seven years old, and Dad takes me aside while Mom keeps my little brothers occupied with s'more-making at a pond-side fire. He asks if I have anything important in my pockets, and then he tells me the plan. He's going to pretend to get angry at me, and I need to run away to the dock. Then he'll run out to the edge of the dock (pretending to be angry) and throw me into the pond with all my clothes in. My little brothers will have no idea that we were just pretending. Dad is my buddy.

I'm eleven, and I just brought in a load of firewood from the hedgerow behind the house. I led Pax and Calvus back there with a sled, and we hauled it through the snow (sometimes Calvus was riding instead of pushing) up to the house. We made a fort with it, and then stacked it in the wood pile. Dad comes up to me afterwards and tells me that he noticed I did some work without being asked. He says that was a really good thing to do, and it means I'm growing up. Dad's impressed with me.

I'm fourteen, hiding out in the barn, and I just cracked my Dad's ribs. I was lying around on the couch, putting off cleaning the room that I was supposed to be moving into downstairs since I've been complaining so much about sleeping in the hall. I was provocative on purpose, just looking for any excuse to argue and say something dramatic. I managed to get him angry enough to grab me, and when I scuffled back I legitimately hurt him. I'm so ashamed of myself I can't imagine ever coming back into the house again.

I'm six, and Dad tells me to get into the car for a surprise, but not to tell any of my brothers. I ask him what the surprise is as we drive towards Medina. He defers the answer a few times, and I look out the window as we drive by my cousin's house and out of town. I wonder if we're going to the hardware store. We take a turn that I'm not used to, and he suddenly turns towards me and declares that he and I are going to see a Buffalo Bills game at Rich Stadium! It's a preseason game, and the Bills beat the Atlanta Falcons. I even get to see Jim Kelly warming up. But best of all, I get to sit with my Dad all alone at a Bills game.

I'm nine, and Dad has been sick for three days. I can tell Mom is worried, but most of what she says about insurance and the doctor is right over my head. I haven't seen Dad come out of his room the whole time, but he's real busy with the new business right now anyway, so I don't think much of it. When he comes out he hasn't shaved, and he can hardly stand up. He has trouble walking, and he looks real thin. Mom's putting out toast and soup for him, but he doesn't really eat any. I ask him some questions, but he doesn't answer. Dad isn't supposed to be vulnerable.

I'm fifteen, and I'm about to play my first trumpet audition. We're driving down to Houghton College, where I'm hoping to get early admission so that I can leave high school early. I feel dreadfully sick, and I think it's the hills. But really it's the nerves. I want to suggest that we turn back, and then I want to suggest that we stop the car. Mom asks me how I'm doing, and I say that I'm not feeling well. Dad tells to look at it this way: that I get to skip school, and that I get to go play the trumpet, which is something I love to do anyway.

I'm five years old, and I'm storming around the downstairs of the house furiously. I know that the bus will be coming any moment now, and I can't find my backpack. I need my backpack. I accuse all of my brothers of stealing it, and I'm getting even angrier because my Dad is laughing at me. Finally he has mercy and points out that my backpack is already on my back. He tells me I take myself too seriously.

I'm twelve, and my parents ask me to come into the kitchen. They say that we need to have a talk. I guess what the talk is going to be about from their tone. I've been sent to the library during health for the past few weeks of 6th grade, and I suddenly panic, knowing that they're going to want to talk about sex. They ask me what I know about...about..sex. I lie spectacularly, telling them that I know about what men and women do and how it can make pregnancies if they don't use contraception. (Contraception is the most important sounding word I know about sex.) They look immensely relieved, although a little puzzled, and conclude the conversation quickly, to everyone's relief.

I'm four, and my Dad brings me to work with him at Photos by Bruce. He has all kinds of fun sports equipment for me to hold, and I get my picture taken with a tennis racket and a basketball and a football. We even bounce the basketball back and forth a little bit afterwards, although it's a little big so I'm kind of scared of it. Dad tells me that he will develop the pictures in a dark room and I'll get to see myself looking like an athlete, which is what I want to be when I grow up.

I'm thirteen, and I know everything there is to know about music. I've been reading my Mom's old music theory textbooks that I found in her closet, and I've even taught myself how to read bass clef. My Dad is practicing his bass guitar down in his bedroom and I listen to him outside his door. I knock, and then I go in. There's a pipe lying on his woodstove, and he's been practicing a jazz song I recognize. I ask him how he knew what to play, and he says he was playing it by ear. My pride is wounded, but I more admire him.

I'm six years old, and I'm begging my Dad to put on the Star Wars record again. My brothers hear and join in as well. We all want to sing along with the main theme. Dad says the record player is broken, but he goes into his closet and gets out his old trumpet. He plays a scale or two to warm up, and then he plays the main theme from Star Wars on the trumpet. We all can't believe that he's playing Star Wars!

I'm ten, and Dad tells me that I need to come out back and help stack the woodpile that was delivered yesterday. The pile is enormous, and I'm sure that we'll never get through it all. And if we need to stack it, I'd rather make forts with it with my younger brothers. Sam and Pax start out helping, but each of them fade away pretty soon and need to go back in the house. Just Dad and I are left working, and although we don't get it all stacked, I can see the progress that we made. He tells me some funny stories about him and his friend Doug, and once we're finished we throw the football back and forth, just the two of us.

I'm eight years old, and my Dad has driven the minivan up on his two metal auto-ramps to change the oil. He's telling me about his high school chemistry teacher. He says "you'll pay for everything you don't know how to do." I crawl around under the car with him and blink as soot gets in my eyes. I see how grimy his hands are from wrestling with the drain to the oil pan.

I'm thirteen years old, and Sam is gone for a few weeks this summer. We all load into the van, and baby Martha is buckled in. Before Mom turns the van on, Dad looks back at me, Pax, Calvus, and little Lux. He says "We want you boys to know that we got your report cards last week, and we haven't talked about grades or about your concerts in a long time, because we didn't want Sam to feel bad. But we talked it over, and we want you to know how proud we are of you..." He keeps talking, but I've slid down the seat and am squeezing my eyes shut so my brothers won't see that I'm crying. I didn't realize until he talked about it how long I'd wanted to hear that.

I'm seven years old. Dad turned the game off because the Bills were losing so bad. He turns it back on to check the score, and it turns out the Bills have scored a touchdown. He calls me back into the exercise room, and we listen on the radio as they all of a sudden score again and again. I'm tired from being up early at church that morning, but I stay awake even as things slow down in the fourth quarter. The game goes to overtime, and the phone rings with Dad's friends. He won't talk anymore, because the game is back on, and Nate Odomes made an interception. When Steve Christie makes the game winning kick we pump our fists and jump up and down and scream louder than ever before and jump around the exercise room dancing and hugging.

I'm twenty six years old, and I've been a father for one day. Mom and Dad came and brought me dinner while J was still in labor, and then Mom was able to see James (but not hold him) for a few minutes on her way to work the next morning. I hold my newborn son to offer him to my Dad for the first time.

It's my eighth birthday. My Dad gives me a brown plastic case with only one working latch. It's a musical instrument. I open up the case upside down, and then turn the tarnished brass over, and look at the new instrument I'm holding in my hands. It's a cornet.

As a matter of fact, pretty much every good thing in my life came from Tom Smith.

On Fathers

James D Bear lives on Washington Street in the nursery. He is growing longer every day, and his parents have just arranged to have him baptized in March. It wasn't a decision made lightly, and J and I had to find each other from opposing camps. I think it will merit its own entry when the time comes.

Tonight, Monday night, is my time alone with James Bear. J has orchestra rehearsal from 7-9:30, so I give him a bottle and put him to bed. I worry sometimes that James doesn't see enough of me. Several days a week I'm out the door before he's up and I don't return until he's been put to bed for the night. It isn't unusual for Monday night to be the last time he sees me until Thursday afternoon. It would be even worse if J had to work as well, but she can stay home with him, and he loves his Mom beautifully. I'm sure he knows who I am, but I worry when I go several days without seeing him. (Sometimes I'll try to get up in the night if I know I'll be gone all day to see him at his feeding)

I have a marvelous father. He's kept five sons from killing each other for over twenty years, and he's a devoted husband, a small business owner, and a pillar of his church. He is, moreso than any other man I've known, a bringer of peace. He is patient and humble enough to swallow whatever pride he has of his own, and to do what's best for everyone. This is how he's been the worship coordinator for years at our church, and how a household of five boys survived itself. I can't remember the last time he raised his voice or even showed a flicker of a temper. He indulges the foolish strong opinions of others when that's what is best for them, and if that isn't the right thing to do he has a way of correcting you gently. He's so wise he hardly knows it, and he loves his grandchildren now in the same abundance of affection I remember poured out on his own sons and daughter.

My father-in-law is also a maker of peace. Despite his profound theological learning and gift for eloquence, his primary role in his church is as a reconciler and voice of calm. Were I able to speak so easily and hold so much sway, I'd hardly be able to resist throwing my voice against any opposition as I pushed my own theological and organizational agenda. My father-in-law counsels the hotheaded, is patient with error, and always defers to what's best for those around him.

My fathers don't just get along with those around them. Wherever they go they create comfort, calm, and trust. Their trustworthiness is a fragrance, and neither asks for anything in return. Being their son is easy.

Tonight I sat the James Bear on my lap as I put some soup in the microwave. It was a delicious Italian soup J adopted from an Olive Garden date, and I put it in for four minutes so it might be piping hot. James is always happiest with his mother, but he was playing well with me tonight. It's a remarkable thing, how powerfully motherhood sets in. If I ever slipped on the ice and fell while holding James, I would hope that in the split second I had to react, I would overcome my instinctive reaction to brace myself, and would fall in a way that would protect James instead. If J slipped on the ice with James, there wouldn't even be a question of "reacting" to protect him. Her instincts have changed. She loves him and nurtures him as naturally as she breathes, and he knows it. It's why her arms are the safest place in the world for him.

I took the soup out of the microwave and leaned over the table, so I wouldn't drip anything on the little bear bouncing on my knee. I leaned near the bowl and had a few sips. It was piping hot, and delicious. Then I dropped my spoon into the bowl, and the scalding broth splattered directly into my open eye. It felt like I'd been stung by a bee. The soup (which really was delicious) was loaded with hot peppers and salt, and I could hardly see as I staggered up and towards the bathroom. I set James down on his blanket with one eye pinched painfully closed, and then raced upstairs as he began to cry in shock and surprise.

I took my contacts lenses out, and tried to squeeze saline solution into my eye. Eventually I gave up on that and just started splashing cold water onto my face, trying to hold my eye open with one hand and cupping water with the other, James howling downstairs all the while. I started to be able to open my right eye again after a few minutes, and, red and swollen though it was, I was able to think about my son again. He was more frightened than anything else, and it took him a good several minutes of snuggling and whispering to calm him down again.

We had a good half-hour playing with toys. (Even though his rattle gives him a start, I think he likes it.) We were having a grand time on the floor before his bath. We try to bathe him every other night, and I'd made up my mind to give him a big boy bath tonight, which we'd never tried on our own before. I read him a story (The Cat in the Hat) on his changing table, and then stripped him down and took him, the bare little bear, into the bathroom. Sometimes when we change settings all of a sudden he gets upset, and this was one of those times.

I had laid him out on his towel as I checked the temperature of his water, and all of a sudden I heard him truly, truly crying. It isn't hard to tell whether he's mad, frustrated, or scared. As he cried now, shivering and naked on his towel, he was clearly frightened. I wondered whether he was just cold, but I'd wrapped him up tight. I picked him up to snuggle him for a moment, but he was flailing in an unusual way. Then I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sheer terror. He wasn't cold or upset; he'd suddenly realized he was in a room with someone that wasn't Mom, and he was sobbing because was terrified of me. He never looked so small. I tried to whisper to him some more and comfort him, but he kept pushing away from me and twisting back. I put him in the bath, and he kicked like he's never done before, doing anything to get away, to run away, to look for Mom.

His bath tonight was more of a rinse. He was shrieking so hard that I couldn't stand to keep him in there for more than a splash off, and I couldn't get him calmed down afterwards except for finally offering him his bottle. He had tears streaming down his face and he was still shivering with sobs as he took it, twisting away from me and breathing hard. About halfway through he calmed down, and though he was still tear-stained, I felt his little body relax. He had fallen sound asleep when I wrapped him up and laid him in his crib.

Father-love is a strange and frightening thing. I think it's entirely natural, but somehow it requires effort in a way quite unlike Mother-love. Tonight when my little son saw me in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom I frightened him in a way that I've never heard him frightened before. My fathers, by a lifetime of decisions to look to the interest and well-being of others before themselves, bring comfort and peace wherever they go. I, who am clever and vain, haven't been so helplessly inexperienced at something in quite some time, especially something so important as loving and comforting my son. Pray that I might show my Father's love to him.