Father's Day

June 15, 2015

Greetings from the stories,

“You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”  Kahlil Gibran

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and as an extra honor, the longest day of the year.  I opened my Father’s Day gift early; the first day of Summer.  It was an enjoyable day, for many reasons, including having a few moments to consider my place in the arc of time.

Last night my son Carson asked me “What is your favorite story about your Dad?”  I couldn’t answer right then because it there are volumes of experiences to consider.

My Dad had a full life before he left us a baker’s dozen ago.  He was a good father I think, and interestingly something different to each of his children.  I imagine each of us has our own favorite stories.  And with these we have all been sent off on our own trajectories, living our own full lives.  We carry pieces of him forward, I suppose, as we head down our paths, and as we launch our own children down theirs.

Which made me wonder what ‘favorite stories’ I have created for my kids.

Some months ago my sister Jennifer began looking at our family tree.  It is a fascinating exploration, which I’m grateful for.  There are whole generations of people whose names I didn’t know until recently, which is both exciting and sad.

What I thought of as I looked at the line of ancestry stretching back from my children, through their father, and my father, was the multitude of stories that each generation created.  How those seasoned them and shaped their choices and guided their direction.

I traced back as far as the lineage could be shown, over 200 years ago, to my father’s great-great grandfather, George.  George could not imagine what my children would be planning for their future, half way round the world from the village where he considered his father’s influence and what to say to his own children.

I don’t know what he told his son Alexander, or what Alexander told Robert, or what he told Hume.  Or what grandpa told my Dad.  But something was carried forward. 

I like to think that if George was kind, or generous, or curious, or optimistic, or adventurous, or courageous, or honest, that these traits would somehow make their way to whatever influence I may have with my children. 

I also know that I create my life, and I choose what my actions will be and how I will deal with the circumstances that I am given.  But I also know I am influenced by important people in my life, including my father.  And, likely so it is with my children.

I can’t know the stories that were told about George, but I can glimpse them from what I know of my own father.

When I was perhaps thirteen, I planned to ride my bicycle to meet the rest of my family in a campground midway up the state from us.  It was a big adventure, one I had planned for weeks.  My bike was packed, standing on the sidewalk in front of the house.  I couldn’t see it from the living room window because the torrential downpour blocked my vision.  I was back in the house, dripping wet.

I crept upstairs and nudged open my parent’s bedroom door where my father was sleeping.

“Dad”

I could tell he was awake because he raised his head in the dark.  “What?”.

“I was getting ready to go…” 

No response.  I imagine, five o’clock in the morning, half asleep, he was digesting what he was hearing.  I went on:

“It’s raining, really hard.  Storming.  I can’t even see the street.”

He didn’t say anything right away.  It might have taken him a full minute, but it seemed like an hour.  In that time I was waiting for him to tell me to stay home, stay dry, to go another day.  Be sensible.  Stay warm.

“How far is it?” he asked.

I didn’t expect the question but I had stared at my maps for endless hours and knew the answer instantly, answered automatically.  “One hundred twenty miles.”

He settled back into his pillow, another long pause.  “You better get started then.”

I never asked him what he thought that morning.  Maybe he knew how important this adventure was to me, that I had planned it and thought about it for hours every day.  Maybe he knew I needed to push past the challenges to get what I wanted, and on the other side there would be a richer life.  Or maybe he just wanted to go back to sleep. 

But decades later, when I was a father myself, and the two of us were chatting about something I had just been through, some adventure that had gone haywire, he said to me. “Memories are made of inconveniences.”  And then I knew.

George, Alexander, Robert and Hume carved out a life, raised families, sent them out into the world with the best they had to offer as fathers.  And one day my father, armed with this heritage, got off a boat in this country and started making his own memories, which one day would season my life.  And my stories, whatever they amount to, will somehow be shared with the four arrows I launch into a future I will not see.

Hope this finds you writing your story,

David