I suppose if I were truthful, I would say that the longer we are separated from a actual event, the more idyllic the memories become. It’s Fathers Day, and we are all celebrating, and although my Dad lives five hours away, he is still in my heart.
My Dad may have been encouraged to take us kids with him on his Guy Days one time too many, but if he did, I never knew about it. Fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, we did it all.
And one too many trips to the local sporting goods store. Where all the guys would stand around for hours, and tell tall tales, each one topping the other.
“Dad, I gotta pee.” me crossing my 3 year old legs desperately!
“Just a minute, I’m about to explain the humungousness of the one that got away.”
The sound of liquid trickling into a yellow puddle on the floor, of course my Dad was the last to notice it and thought that the sounds of silence were just amazement at the size of the fish that got away.
Finally he noticed that no one was watching his arms spread wide, and all eyes were on the tearful little girl, awash in pee.
“OK, that’s it we are LEAVING RIGHT NOW.”
And you know what, I don’t think I ever had to go back there again.
So Dad, here’s to ages spent in the sporting good stores, the decades of sitting quietly in a wildly rocking boat in the middle of the ocean, without any vision of land, or fish.
For not throwing us out of the boat the first time we sobbed over a dead duck, petting it and calling it poor ducky. We know that all the other hunters were laughing at you.
For showing me how to hook a fish, and when to throw it back. Thanks for showing me how to shoot, even if I will never hunt.
For taking us on innumerable snowmobile trips, even when it was probably the last thing you wanted. And thanks for introducing me to the wonders of a frozen malted milk chocolate bar pulled from the back of a snowmobile’s trunk, a perfect accompaniment to reaching the mountain summit.
And thanks, for doing the best you could.
Happy Father’s Day, I love you.