Father Time is a weekly column dedicated to the concept of time in a parent’s life, particularly a father’s life. The point of view comes from a father of two young sons, both under three-years-old, and how time really is just that: a concept.
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Let’s admit it, Father’s Day isn’t quite as glamourous a holiday as Mother’s Day. Even through their origins go back to the same year, 1908, (the first observance of Mother’s Day being in May of that year and the first observance of Father’s Day in July of that year) Father’s Day didn’t take hold as an official holiday until several years later. Mother’s Day however became official in 1911, and though its originator Anna Jarvis never intended it to be a day to give greeting cards, flower bouquets, or brunch, it is now just that.
Whether it’s commercialization that’s tainted Father’s Day, I sometimes think it’s the father himself that sets the tone.
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And so what for the fathers? What do we get? Sure, the common material gifts are neck ties, bar-b-que tools, and other purported masculine items. Yet something is missing in the giving of those things. Perhaps it’s the sentiment that resounds with Mother’s Day—Jarvis’ real intention—that makes it a touch more special than Father’s Day. Perhaps it’s the fact that mothers, really, do all the work.
Whether it’s commercialization that has tainted Father’s Day, I sometimes think it’s the father himself that sets the tone. Growing up, Father’s Day kind of snuck up on us. One year, I didn’t know what to get my dad, and so I found a smooth stick and asked my mom to write “Happy Father’s Day” on it. One time my mom got him a bar-b-que grill that he never used. Maybe because he didn’t cook. My sister got him a leaf blower one year. He preferred to sweep.
If reuniting with him is a test of time, the clock is definitely ticking. Each year, the thought crosses my mind to reach out and make amends.
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Most gifts for my father, Father’s Day or not, were returned or exchanged. They never met the mark for him. Probably why all I could think of that one year to give him was a stick. The fact that he was picky is only part of the story. My father was a mysterious man. Though he fathered us well and was a great supporter, he was, most of the time, aloof. When we went to the swimming pool, he preferred to work on his tan on deck instead of getting in the water with us. His Sunday night ritual, where my mom went to church, was to take in a movie alone. When we took our first family trip to Disneyland in 1985, he split off from us during the day and met up with us in the evening.
It’s no secret in my family that he led a double life. The man we saw in our house was a man—our father—but he wasn’t really there the way another dad might have been. Now, as our family rarely mentions his name (our mother and him have been separated for six years) the idea of celebrating him is truly an afterthought.
If reuniting with him is a test of time, the clock is definitely ticking. Each year, the thought crosses my mind to reach out and make amends. Each year my kids add a birthday, is another that I realize they’ve never met their grandfather. But then I ask myself, isn’t the celebration of parent and child, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day aside, a reciprocal activity? If he were doing his job as my father, wouldn’t he extend that branch?
It was sweet to see that he still kept that gift. Maybe it touched him that my expression of love was something simple.
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Who knows. One thing I do know, is that he kept that stick I gave him so long ago. I came across it one day looking around in his room. It was on top of the wardrobe in which he kept some clothes and a framed photo collage of us as kids. Behind the frame was where he stashed his pornography. It was sweet to see that he still kept that gift. Maybe it touched him that my expression of love was something simple. Or maybe he held onto it because it was the one thing he couldn’t return.
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Photo credit: Robert Couse-Baker.