ON MY MIND
The perfect Father’s Day gift by Paul Kandarian
Ah, here comes June, time for Father’s Day, when bad gifts make their way into dad’s hands and he has to look like he was just handed a winning lottery ticket. I haven’t had to worry about that for a long time, too long in fact. My kids are in their early to mid-twenties now and don’t buy me cheesy ties anymore (I never wear ties anyway) or hand-craft cute Father’s Day cards (which admittedly I loved getting). Now Father’s Day comes and goes without ties, usually without cards, hand-made or storebought, and I’m fine with that. I’m not one for made-up holidays anyway, which benefit only the cheesy tie, greeting card and chocolate industries as far as I can tell. My son is out of the Army now and sleeping on a futon in my living room. He’s transformed it into a living space that looks like “living” may be a literal term. There’s so much crap there I’m sure some random bacteria must be thriving within it. Maybe it will get me a card. My daughter lives farther away. But with both, I usually have to remind them it’s Father’s Day, or my birthday, or Christmas. My daughter is way better about this stuff, most girls usually are. From her, I’ll get a card or a call or invitation to dinner or lunch. With me picking up the check, of course. Let’s not go crazy and expect too much. My son I usually just wake up to tell him. “Oh,” he answers groggily before rolling over to go back to sleep, adding. “Happy Father’s Day,” or whatever fits the appropriate day. “What’d you get me?” Ha. Funny. “I got you the gift of life,” I say. “Not to mention free room and board for you and your bacterial friends.” I live alone, have for awhile, and the kids, together or separately, lived with me for chunks of that time. Early on, I’d fuss and get a Christmas tree. Then when neither were here, I didn’t. Seemed like a waste of a perfectly good tree to stare at and wish the kids were there. Then later, when it was just my son and me, the suggestion would be made to maybe, I dunno, get a tree. 40
June 2013 / The South Coast Insider
“What for?” my son would ask. “I don’t know, just because?” I’d answer. Then we’d weigh what needed to be done, buying a tree, hauling it up, decorating it, neither of us remembering to water it until it was as dead as much as what’s now alive under the debris of his living space. And then of course, taking the decorations off and hauling it out, leaving behind pine needles which, near as I can tell, never, ever totally go away. So we haven’t had a tree for awhile. It works for us. Then there’s the whole thing about gifts. I know families who, I guess to their credit, are totally gung-ho over things like Father’s Day. They get gifts for not just their own fathers but every father or grandfather within their realm. I mean really, where do you draw the line? Same with Christmas. Every year they say they’re cutting back on who they’re getting gifts for and every year the family gets bigger with new babies and spouses and they’re once again spending the national debt on gifts for people they maybe see once a year. I’m going to be 60 this year, which I’d prefer not being, but then again, what’s the alternative, right? So I’ll take it. But I don’t want a party. Maybe a few friends, dinner, whatever. But no party. I mean I’m happy to have lived this long, I’m having a great time. I just don’t need to be reminded I have roughly three times as many birthdays behind me than ahead of me. Soon enough, I’ll be hauled away like a brittle old Christmas tree. I just don’t want to think about it. Going way back, I don’t recall making a fuss over Father’s Day when I was a kid, though we may have and I just can’t remember. I’m sure my brother and I got, through mom, cheesy ties for our dad, which he probably gushed over like he just won the lottery, which actually didn’t exist back then. He probably tucked them away somewhere, never to be seen again. I don’t feel badly about not fussing
over, or being fussed over, when it comes to Father’s Day. An occasional phone call is fine, or a threat to clean the living room before a Haz-Mat team needs to be called in suffices, as does the random request for money. Nothing like your kid asking for cash to make you really feel like a father. They always promise to pay me back. I figure that’ll happen when I pay back my own father the money I “borrowed” from him over the years. Once in awhile, I run across an old card the kids got me, usually unexpectedly and being the hardened, jaded type, I melt like butter and cry like a baby when I read them. And that, I guess, is good enough, because I know that how they felt then is how they feel now. We have a deep, loving bond we don’t need words on a card to express. Our hearts know what our hearts know. Still, this Father’s Day, maybe I’ll get the kids together for dinner or lunch, maybe bring my father along. I’m sure he’ll pick up the check. And I’m sure I’ll promise to pay him back. Happy day to all us fathers. Just having one, and being one, is all the gift I’ll ever really need.