Father's Day Cards

After a quick browsing of the Father’s Day cards at the local Hallmark store, I discovered that 95 percent of the selections mocked dear ol’ dad in some way, shape, or form. The other five percent where under the heading, “Blank Inside.” A similar search last month for Mother’s Day revealed zero cards making fun of moms.

The Father’s Day cards mainly poked fun at our fathers’ affinity for belching, farting, napping, cursing, and remote-control using. Whereas Mother’s Day cards either praise mom for her love, care, and devotion or offer up some sort of apology for having to put up with difficult children. Why has it become so accepted to deride dad on his day? This should not be the case because we all know about the societal, emotional, and spiritual importance of having an active, strong, and masculine influence for children of both genders.

Anyway, I have a great dad and I’ve never sent him a Father’s Day card that poked fun at him. I usually try to find a card that honors him or praises him for his excellent parenting skills. I then write a thank you note to him for some of the dozens of individual memories of the times when he came through for me in the clutch. Things like holding my hand while I got stitches in my head from a freak floor-hockey accident in PE class. Or building me a loft in my college dorm room. Or driving to Lansing at a moment’s notice to pick me up after my college was flooded. Or making me get a job in a bathroom counter top factory in which I was the only employee who didn’t have a parole officer.

Now if I were designing Father’s Day cards, I would create a genre just for cards to thank dad for providing a safe, warm, secure, and loving home. God only knows how many miles my dad drove selling medical books to put food on our table, braces on my teeth, and a private Christian education in my mind. He did it without a cell phone, an iPod, or books on CD. He did it with the faithfulness of a postal worker and still had the energy when he got home to chase me around our driveway basketball court, battle me on the tennis court, or crouch over a makeshift home plate while I honed my fastball.

My next genre of cards would be for never once insulting me, putting me down, or abusing me. Instead compliments were given and the utterances of “I love you” were as numerous as mosquito bites in a Michigan summer.

There would be a genre for recognizing his talents, from meatball making, to story-telling. He had a forehand that reminded me of Jimmy Connors and a set shot that would make Bob Cousy proud. He writes, gives speeches, quotes Shakespeare, and can discuss anything from the Opera to what happened last week on Glee. He’s one of the few members of the Geezers Who Aren’t Afraid of Technology Club. He computes, scans, downloads, and uploads, with the aplomb of a Microsoft employee. He can even understand the person from India when he puts in a troubleshooting phone call.

And finally, there would be a genre for standing strong during tragedies. When cancer hit our home three times he twice valiantly stood against it like Stonewall Jackson. He shaved his own head, shuttled my mom to countless chemo sessions, and became an expert in making homemade juice in an effort to employ radical treatments. In my mom’s final year on this Earth, he blessed her with a surprise birthday party and a couple of trips across the country to see loved ones on both sides of our family. Her last year was without a doubt the best of their 45-year marriage.

When the cancer finally won I watched him grieve. It was the absolute worst of times but he was strong. As a now mom-less family, I truly believe that we all were bonded closer together because he didn’t fall apart. But when the cards and casseroles stopped arriving I wondered how he would get by in an empty house. Was I going to find him glued to the couch with his ubiquitous white undershirt stained orange from Cheeto dust? Thankfully, I never did. Instead, he successfully reinvented himself; becoming a star of the Monterey Peninsula, a popular columnist, a social butterfly, and a first-class Geez-about-town.

This week I heard a radio commentary from character-guru Michael Josephson talking about how a dad cannot be a friend to his children. He said that, “a father who tries to be a best friend can’t be a real father. To be a friend is voluntary. It’s an option. To be a father is a privilege, but above all it’s a moral obligation.” I agree with this. But there comes a time when a Father’s role is lessened to a degree. Maybe it’s when the child goes off to college, or gets married, or has children of his own. I think it’s possible at this time for a father to become a friend. In fact, I know it’s possible. Because it’s true in my own life. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. And when you’re done reading this, you may resume your daily routine of napping, cursing, belching and farting.