No Father’s Day breakfast for dad, instead a new beginning…

My eldest daughter was supposed to take me out to breakfast on Father’s Day.

She didn’t. She became a little busy.

Instead she presented us all with a brand new baby boy. That makes grandchild no. 3.

She and her family live not quite three hours to the south of us. The baby was supposed to be born at a hospital near home but when a child arrives three weeks early, plans are thwarted.

My daughter was visiting her parents when she realized it was time. And why does it so often become time at four in the morning? I was still saying, what? huh? now? when wife and daughter left for the hospital. I followed soon after, though.

Actually, she had been informed the baby would be early – she just didn’t think that early.

There’s something about pregnant women that seems to put them on the move shortly before birth.

Maybe it all started with Mary, mother of Jesus of Nazareth. Did she not take an arduous journey to Bethlehem and on the back of a donkey which resulted in her giving birth? And she had no hospital, not even any room at the inn.

My own mother recalled that she had taken car trips before the birth of at least two of her children and a long walk before the birth of another.

The new grandson was born the afternoon of Father’s Day and at last report mother and baby were doing fine. My wife has been pulling long hours of duty helping daughter both at her home and now at the hospital. The new procedure is that the baby stays in the room with the mother – no nursery. Meanwhile, I’m doing what I usually do, blog.

But I did see the new human two times today. Cute as a button as they say.

And if you are not moved by the miracle of birth and the thought of the need to work for a better world in your own way at such a sight, then something is missing.

Looking back at my father and his strange ways and seeing myself…

I wanted to write something inspiring or respectful or even nostalgic for Father’s Day, but the only thing that comes immediately to mind is that I am thankful I had one and one who took his duty as a father seriously. I know a lot of people are not so fortunate.

Fathers can provide wisdom. I know mine did. He gave me all kinds of excellent advice. And I followed very little of it and wished that I had.

I’ve spent a large part of my life trying to figure the man out. He was such a puzzle to me and seemed to have strange ways at times and often seemed to be out of place or out of sync with society. Some people would think one way and some the other and then Dad would think a third way.

He was generally gentle with his criticism. While he was a good home carpenter, once I built something and he said: “well I’ve never seen it done that way before”.

Dad was a newspaperman and as such used the telephone extensively as part of his work – and that is about all the use he had for the infernal machine. He had some strange dislike or phobia for it otherwise. He did not believe in telephone conversations outside work, except for short messages (but Twitter would have seemed a waste of time to him, I’m sure — I have to think he would have thought this era of instant communication to be a terrible mis-use of communication). He had a habit of hanging up with no warning – not so much as a goodbye (actually Mom used to do that too, but seems to not do that so much nowadays).

About being religious, Dad was consistent – he wasn’t.

When the hospice lady asked him what his religious preference was for his funeral he said: I’ve resisted religion this long. I’m not going to start now (that’s okay, my oldest brother supplied the religious aspect for the funeral – you really can’t control your own funeral and he would not have objected anyway). A little secret, though, he once confided in me that he like most humans pondered over whether there is a God and what might come after life and said that he really could not say.

And I will say this: I have known or seen a lot of people in my life who greatly professed their belief in the almighty and the tenets of the good book and by their actions it was obvious that they neither believed nor followed the path of righteousness.

Dad did not need a book to convince himself to treat others as he would want to be treated or to generally follow the rules of life laid down in the scriptures.

And yet he always taught me to be respectful of the religion of others.

Dad did not push his belief or non-belief on others, even in his family, at least far as I know.

I did follow his attitude for much of my life, but have struggled for some time, you know, especially since I was diagnosed with cancer – but even well before that.

There was dignity in Dad’s demeanor, but little pretense. He was a country boy. He was the first in his country neighborhood to go to high school. He eventually went on to college and earned a masters degree in political science.

In my puzzlement over my Dad, I often wondered whether he had not suffered some terrible disappointment or disillusionment in his life. Maybe it was the fact that while he obtained his masters he never ended up making the most of it, at least in a monetary way.

But Dad was a man who may have worried about money but had no use for the stuff by itself. He liked life. He loved the outdoors, but had no need or desire for the expensive toys so many seem to consider necessary today. He loved to work at home carpentry projects. He watched very little television. He had a sense of humor, but it was often hard to detect. Things that seemed funny to most people, often did not to him.

He was not perfect, but he was a perfectionist. He could not shortchange any task he did. It was not in him.

There are so many things I don’t know about Dad. But I think I do know one thing. He had no sense whatsoever of business (not that I do). I can’t picture him gaining advantage over someone else, coming out on the better side of the deal. I think he would have felt ashamed to do so.

But he was fair and good and respectful of other people.

Perhaps too late in life, I have tried to adopt some of his better attributes and take some of his advice.

And maybe one of the things that bugs me more than anything is that as much as some of the ways of my father gave me fits, I see so much of myself in my memories of him.

I also have to admit that I am more fortunate than he was.

I had a father to raise me. He did not (although an uncle substituted to some extent). His father left home when he was but a young child under what after all these years are either unknown or forgotten circumstances.

And as I said to begin with, I know I am fortunate to have had a father to raise me.