Father's Day

So I woke, today, to a wonderful pile of presents - a Father's Day giftset put together by L., and two thoughtful packages from my own parents. Almonds, golf balls, photos, and a copy - already treasured - of Taro Gomi's classic Everyone Poops. And then, near the bottom, a small tract published in 1954 and entitled A Successful Guide to Fatherhood, by O. Spurgeon English, M.D.

Turn to page 4 - making sure to enjoy the dated line drawings as you do - and you'll find this: "If a man enjoyed a happy childhood relationship with his father, he will probably find it easy to love and take an active interest in his own children."

I've never really thought, I've realized this week, of fathering as a series of choices, or of Father's Day as a deserved holiday. Passively, I'd always more or less assumed that fathers were simply fathers, and always had been, in some sense; after all, as long as I've known my own dad, he's been my dad. It's hard to conceive of him in some other, non-fatherly role. For that reason, I'd thought of Father's Day as somehow comparable to, say, a Slovakian Day. One simply is, or isn't; that's all.

But the small mound of gifts in our bedroom seems to argue, again and again, that fathering is in fact an ongoing activity. And the inscription on the card, from my father, reminds me that he is not simply my father - but that he continues to offer an example to me, and continues to think of fatherhood as an activity, rather than as an empty, ordained title.

And that, I think, is why the passage from Spurgeon English, above, sounds correct to me. It's easy, I find again and again, to love Cleo. And now, a year and a fraction into being a father, I'm starting to understand why. One major reason lies about five and a half hours south of us.