If God had given me the choice of fathers, I may not have picked Dad.
I may have picked a dad like my friend Jane’s. I never met the man. He was never home. But he bought her a horse. I had to settle for Dad’s frequent stories of the long-dead horses he’d lived with growing up on the farm. He remembered Bird and Nell best. And when he told the story of how he punched Bird one day, hard, he always cried.
“He kicked me,” he said. “So I punched him right back. You can’t let a horse get away with that. But looking back I realized he thought I was another horse coming up behind him, and he felt terrible. So did I. Still do.”
I begged for a horse. Dad always said no. Once, though, at an auction, he bought me a halter. I begged for it, certain that if I had the halter, the horse would follow. It never did, but the halter kept the dream alive. What kind of father leads his daughter on like that? Lets her yearn for something she can never have?
I may not have picked Dad, knowing that one day my horrific nightmares would motivate him (after having to come upstairs numerous times to comfort me) to show up at school one day, demanding that the librarian, Mrs. Geralis, stop playing Alfred Hitchock tapes during Library period. And further, that she stop shutting all the green blinds and making us put our heads on the desk during the listening.
I may not have picked Dad. He didn’t make much money. Other friends with rich dads went to Disneyland in the summer. One of my favourite summer memories involves racing with my pup, down the vacant halls of the schools where my father worked as a caretaker and boiler engineer. Eating sandwiches and boiled eggs with him in the dark boiler room and listening to him explain why the pressure gauge was important.
Other dads bought long streamlined trailers for camping with their families. Dad bought a used tent trailer, and made us help set it up. Then, one summer, he stuck around in the yard on his days off, making noise and a mess. Sawing and hammering and painting. When the pile of plywood he began with became a cream-coloured camping trailer decorated with a long red arrow down its sides, we didn’t mind so much.
I may not have picked Dad, knowing that he would use the strap hanging in the stairwell when he thought it necessary. For silly things like disobeying the babysitter – my oldest sister. For lying. Being mean.
I may not have picked Dad, knowing that he would insist we attend church. Sit through long sermons with big words. Learn Bible stories. Sing and play for the congregation. Watch sinners come clean at the altar…
No. I may not have picked Dad, so God picked him for me. As usual, Father knows best.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
