The Ties that Bind

One of the letters published in Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers describes a father who quit school in sixth grade because his own father voiced increasing contempt for education and beat his son for bringing home books.

This is not the first time I’ve read of such a reaction to reading. Even yesterday at the library I witnessed a mother rebuking her young daughter for wanting to borrow more than two books. The girl tried to explain her choices, but the mother didn’t bother listening. She held firm in her position.

My goodness. I can’t even imagine who I would have turned out to be had my father not encouraged my love for books and reading—a love initiated by my mother, who religiously read stories to me during my pre-K years. Most of the quality time I spent with my father involved books and libraries. Books remain my favorite leisure activity and my trusted source for expanding my knowledge base. My fascination with interpreting the printed word paved the way to interpreting music notation and to (proof)reading for a living.

I’ve much to thank my father for, but I think I’m most grateful that he shaped and nurtured my bond with reading and learning. He created more than memories for me. He fostered my desire for continued personal and intellectual growth, armchair traveling, creativity, and pleasure.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. No tie or soap-on-a-rope for you this year. Just a genuine, humble thank-you.

[Art by Eugene Manet.]

The Memory Keeper’s Father

Father’s Day is approaching and I gave myself an assignment:
Read Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers and let it guide you through memories of your own father. Write down all the things your father did and said for which you’re grateful—the things you should never forget.

Why the Russert book in particular? Because several years ago I bought it for my father for Father’s Day, then got the wacky idea that I’d get a copy, too, and we’d read it and talk about it together. It would structure our phone conversations and, I’d hoped, prompt my father to tell a few stories I’d never heard—perhaps about his own father or grandfather. Together we would also reminisce about our father-daughter relationship.

Of course, it didn’t work out as planned. Instead, we each owned the book, and we each did not read it. Like father, like daughter.

Yesterday I removed the Russert book from a shelf and added it to the 20 pounds of books I’m about to part with (some I’ve read, others I haven’t). But it gnawed at me. Reminded me of my failed plans and guilted me into action. I felt like ONE of us should have read the blasted thing and since my father had already taken off for the Great Beyond, the responsibility fell to me.

So far it’s working! The reading is sweet and easy (the book is a collection of stories written by adult children about their fathers) and I’m creating a list of the ways in which my father positively influenced my life. This will become the list I’ll never want to forget—a fatherhood torch of sorts.

I recommend my assignment to you, though you don’t need the Russert book to do it. If you’re lucky enough to still have your father around, perhaps your list could become your Father’s Day gift to him this year.

I know some of us have/had fathers who aren’t/weren’t great role models. As one man wrote for the Russert book: “My dad was a beast. … I learned much more about love from my dogs than I ever did from my dad.” Even so, even learning from a father that you want to live differently is a lesson to be thankful for.

Do you have a favorite memory of or lesson from your father to share on Lull? Is your father a closet inventor or tireless prankster? What role did he play in your childhood? I’m not asking for masterpieces—just a line or two will do. Do it for your dad.

[Art by Norman Rockwell.]

Fast and Curious: A Father and Daughter Rebuild a Shared History

It’s an unusual Father’s Day this year at Lull HQ. Our grandfathers are long gone; we no longer have fathers or father figures left, and we no longer have any furred “girls” around to honor their male human with a card and (usually) a CD. Father’s Day isn’t meaningless, but it’s not an active holiday for us—we’re under no obligation to do anything. It feels like the perfect occasion to tell you about Sidney…

My father and I had grown apart emotionally as well as geographically over the years. What we knew of each other was based on interactions from my childhood, B.D. (Before the Divorce). I hoped to remedy this by moving to the Bluegrass State.

On one of our visits with my father last spring, prior to our move, my husband and I spent time doing the physical labor my father was no longer capable of doing—raking, organizing the barn, general cleaning. One of my duties was to prepare the ground-level birdbaths and garden drinking elements for use. This meant weeding, pulling muck out of the birdbaths, scraping algae off the decorative stones, making it all shiny and new again for the avian populations of my father’s backyard.

What I didn’t realize when I accepted the task was that it was a pet project and my father wanted it done a particular way—that is to say, HIS way. So I positioned a chair near the action and helped my father into it. From the chair, my father would be close enough to supervise my every move, but not so close that he’d get sprayed by the hose (unless, of course, I took aim at him). As his instructions grew more detailed and his corrections of my work mounted, taking aim at him was beginning to look like a satisfying option.

That’s when Sidney (or maybe Sydney) popped into our lives. I was scooping stones out of the baths and throwing them into the driveway. On one was the little gastropod. I gasped at the thought of a different outcome, of the snail being crushed by the stones. All tension slipped away at this new development. We now had a dual purpose: clean and protect.

You might think that protecting a snail is easy. “Just keep an eye on him,” you advise. “He won’t go far—snails are slow.”

But you’d be wrong, at least where Sidney was concerned.

Sidney was focused and FAST. One moment he was resting on a rock, the next he was stretched across two rocks—tasting algae, testing surfaces, conducting who-knows-what exploratory exercises. He was a fascinating snippet of a creature who appeared to be fascinated by everything around him. He exuded personality.

I could almost hear him “Hrrmph” each time I wrangled him from going too far. I didn’t want Sidney wandering into the driveway, facing certain death by automobile. I intended to return him to the mini-wetlands environment from which he’d come, but not before I had the area cleaned and replenished with fresh water.

It was a hot day and my father started worrying about the snail getting overheated. “Have you checked on Sidney lately? Is he okay?” asked my father.

Periodically, I created tiny pools of water next to my charge so he could drink (he didn’t) and sprinkled water over him to cool him off, which spurred him to scoot away from me (indignantly, I thought). Had he been a dog, he would have shaken his little body at that point and splattered water right back at me.

I struck up a conversation with him. That is, I talked to Sidney and he stretched his head in my direction, as if he were listening. (I know. More likely he was thinking, What the Hell?) I told him he needed to keep hydrated because my father was getting on my case about his welfare. And I could take only so many orders from the old man in that heat.

In truth, Sidney had already taken some of the heat off of me. My father had become more interested in the snail than in supervising me. It was looking like Sidney had clinched his future as a yard pet.

Once I’d made Sidney’s home habitable again, I placed him on the edge of the pool. He couldn’t get away from it fast enough. I repeated my effort, this time situating him closer to the water. He stretched out his neck, surveyed the liquid, and took a long drink. I offered a leaf as a way out of the pool. Instead, he took a bite from it.

“What’s he doing now?” asked my father.

“He’s looking at me again,” I answered. Then Sidney disappeared into the foliage as mysteriously as he had materialized in the first place.

We never saw Sidney again, but he became part of my father’s storytelling repertoire in the final months of his life and a precious shared experience between us.

Note: The photos of Sidney don’t show his true colors. The dark “veins” on his body were purple, and his shell had a chartreuse glow to it. He was quite striking.

So Long, Snoopy, Snoopy, So Long

y father took great care in choosing cards for people. Whether for a specific occasion or for no reason at all, the card had to speak to him as well as to the recipient. (Frankly, this is how all of us should choose our cards.)

I’ve saved most of the cards he sent to me over the years, knowing how much of him was in each one. (Confession: When we moved, I parted ways with the Snoopy cards. Eons ago I played the part of Snoopy in a small production of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown. Loved the role at the time, but didn’t expect it to follow me into the Golden Years. Dad kept the flame lit.)

Mindful of my father’s perspective, I tried to reciprocate with my card choices for him. Sometimes this felt like an exercise in futility. The major greeting-card companies didn’t seem to have a handle on my personality. But one year, the gods of the cards came to my rescue for Father’s Day.

A publication I oversaw needed cover art that easily connected to one of the stories inside. It was a June issue, so there was also a need to give a nod to Father’s Day somewhere in the issue. Holidays usually inspired us to find cover art that did double duty—that worked as well for the special occasion as for a particular story.

We were coming up empty though—running out of ideas and time. I was desperate enough to start thumbing through my own boxes of photos and memorabilia. That’s how I found it.

The photograph from my childhood prominently featured my father (in what some might think a humiliating position) in a spontaneous musical moment with his youngest daughter. Silliness reigned.

The photo tied in with both the holiday and with a story about hearing a different beat in life and following that rhythm. (My father bristled at being labeled a conformist. He relished being a little outside the norm.) On the inside cover, I published this note for him:

ABOUT THE COVER: By example, this man encouraged me to see joy and meaning in everyday things. And to imagine what I wanted as something I already had. He convinced me that there’s always something new to learn and to always have a Plan B. He made sacrifices so that my life would be what his hadn’t been. And for all these reasons, I feel grateful and privileged. This man, Robert S. Jackson, is my father. Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Voilà! Instant Father’s Day card!

I don’t remember the gift I sent that year. It was secondary to the perfect card, which I knew my father would like. However, I couldn’t have imagined just how much pleasure he would derive from it. He wrote to me that now he’d made it to the cover of a magazine, maybe he’d try to get onto a calendar next. I’d forgotten when I made the cover art choice that my father bought this same pocket-size, inspirational publication in bulk and sent it to all his clients each month. He didn’t hesitate (as I would have) sharing the incriminating shot of silliness. He got a LOT of mileage from it over the years.

Once again, it’s time to pay tribute to dads. This is the first Father’s Day I won’t have to obsess about finding the perfect card and gift. Mission already accomplished.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]