June 15, 2024
You can count on it coming in early June. My Dad will reach out to all of his kids and say, “The most important day of the year is coming this Sunday. You do remember that Father’s Day is this Sunday, right?”
Yes, Dad. We remember.
I heard those words this week from my 85-year-old Dad in our weekly Tuesday conversation. I love those talks. We’ve been having them for a long time now. They don’t last too long, maybe 15-20 minutes. We talk about our workouts that week, new ailments, family members (only good things – I have to say that because they read these posts), books we are reading, and things that make us smile and laugh. And believe it or not, I learn something new about my Dad in a majority of those conversations. I wish I could have them all transcribed, and that I would store them in Evernote, but I just try to take them all in and enjoy them for what they are.
Like me, my Dad is a storyteller. I enjoy all of the stories, though I have often doubted their veracity. Abe Lincoln, one of my father’s heroes, often explained situations through anecdotes and parables. While the northern masses loved it, those closest to him would roll their eyes whenever he would start a new story with “It reminds me of the farmer, who . . . “ Over the years, I have learned that Dad’s stories have more than a grain of truth in them. The movie that hits closest to home is one my favorites, Big Fish. The father, Ed Bloom, is one of the all time great storytellers, and his son asks him to “Joe Friday” it – to just to state the facts. Ed Bloom responds, “Most men, they’ll tell you a story straight through. It won’t be complicated, but it won’t be interesting either.” I think that is Dad’s philosophy as well. Why just state the facts when you can tell a fascinating story? It’s a lesson from my father that I’ve tried to teach both of my sons. High points, low points, risks, victories, failures, embarrassing moments – after a while, they just become another story. And life is far better when we have interesting stories.
All of us kids have stories about Dad as a feared disciplinarian. If our mom wanted us to put an immediate halt to whatever shenanigans we were up to, all she had to say was, “Do you want me to tell this to your father!?!” Our answer would be an immediate, “No, Ma’am,” and it was over. There was yelling, there were punishments, and there were threats. I don’t think he could have really turned me into a grease spot (one of his frequent threats when I had done/not done something), but I did not want to find out. We laugh about those stories now, and my siblings and I all believe that those moments shaped us into the people we are now.
Dad kept us busy every weekend. For the majority of the year, weekends meant lawn mowing. Dad bought the heaviest and most reliable Sears Craftsman mowers. He would never waste money on any kind of self-propelled mower, because that would have made the job a little easier. During the winter, the lawn went dormant, but our chores did not. We had a vacant lot next to us. Nothing but dirt and rocks. Dad must have truly hated the rocks that would pop up whenever it rained on that dirt lot. We would be out there on a winter weekend, digging holes in that lot, then the next weekend, we would rake the rocks up on the lot, and throw them in those holes that we had dug. Then it would rain, and more rocks would rise to the surface. Endless, useless work. Maybe it was good for us? And now, it’s just a story. Whenever I do something that takes a lot of work for not much result, all I’m doing is “raking rocks.” For the record, I have never asked my children to mow the lawn or rake rocks. So far, they have turned out pretty darn good.
I would describe Dad as crazy, but mostly crazy in a very good way. As a family, we did unheard of things. I’ve written about our three-week bicycling excursion to Ireland. We trained as a together, then, with only maps as our guide, packed up our bikes, put them together in the Limerick, Ireland airport, and took off riding. It was an epic trip, a fountain of many stories, and only a true madman would plan it. We would have very splashy and noisy swimming battles in any pools that would have us. We would swim up to Dad, and he would toss us away, high in the air, sending us screaming as we landed in contorted positions. That’s a great way to clear a crowded pool by the way. I’m pretty sure other parents were telling their kids to stay clear of the insanity in the pool. I don’t know how rare this is, but he demanded that all of his kids go to college out of state. He thought we would learn more about life by expanding our horizons. It was just one more crazy expectation growing up in our house.
And there’s a little bit of Atticus Finch in my Dad. And I’m talking less about the lawyer side of Atticus than the “treat all people with respect” side of him. I remember eating lunch at a super fancy club, and saying thank you to a waiter who brought me some water. The next thing I felt was a hard slap on my face from my grandmother, who told me never to thank a person of color. She did not say it with those words. I remember looking at my Dad, who assured me we would talk later. I don’t remember exactly what he said when we went home, but he confirmed that the members of our family treated all people with fairness and respect. And he didn’t say this, but I felt the Atticus Finch line, “There’s a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep ‘em all away from you. That’s never possible.” He was raised in a racist environment and somehow he emerged as a progressive Southerner. He took on clients of all races who could not afford to pay him, and it was just part of what he did. But I know it was appreciated, and we all loved that he was given one of our many much-loved short-haired dachshunds as one form of payment. I think that’s the side of my father that shaped me and eventually contributed to my decision to want to make a difference via public education.
As we have progressed through life, it’s Dad’s listening and caring that have meant the most to me. He knows as much about my life and my career as anybody. He will tell me when I’ve written a great post, and when I’ve written a bunch of words that don’t really matter. He has cheered me on when life has gone well, and been there for me in my most challenging times. These once-a-week conversations add up, because he is fully invested in them. I feel pretty darn lucky, at age 62, to have a father who still adds so much to my life. On my last birthday, he told me that he was embarrassed to have a son who was so old. Pretty funny, actually. Sometimes, being a great dad, friend, or partner is just listening. And believe it or not, for storytellers to be at the top of their game, they must be outstanding listeners.
So whether or not Father’s Day is the most important day of the year, I do wish a Happy Father’s Day to my listening, progressive, crazy, idleness-hating, holder of high expectations, and story-telling father. This post just scratches the surface of who you are. But I love all of it. I look forward to our conversation on Father’s Day, and then we’ll get back to the highlight of my week – our Tuesday morning conversations.
I love you, Dad.
“A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories.
They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal.”
Ed Bloom, Big Fish
For all of my blog posts, go to www.drmdmatthews.com
The Most Important Day of the Year - Podcast Version