June 23, 2009

Another Special Father's Day

This past weekend was the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. Each year thousands of latter-day Druids celebrate the first instant of the summer season. They congregate to share, discuss and revel in their spiritual awakening at sacred places like southern England's Stonehenge or east Ann Arbor's Denny's.

With the Solstice falling on Saturday, there was a pretty aggressive Summer Solstice party here at the lake this year, as measured in BBD (Beers Before Dark) units. I didn't actually make it out to join the celebration, but judging from the happy revelers washing up on our beach wearing Jager Bomb t-shirts and beatific smiles, it was a big success.

Of course, the other big thing that happened this past weekend was Father's Day. Inspired by the Solstice, I was going to really get into the spirit of the thing and sacrifice a goat in a bonfire, mainly so I could wear my brand new barbecue apron imprinted, "You Don't Have To Be A Pagan To Cook Here, But It Helps." It turns out sacrificial goats are in pretty short supply around our house, so I had to settle for chuck ribs on the grill.

Father's Day has always been a fun day for me. I typically plan to lounge around and watch ball games and NASCAR, enjoy a phone call from my son, and maybe even rack up a few BBD of my own. Oddly enough, other than the wonderful phone call, it never seems to work out that way.

For some reason I always seem to end up getting uncharacteristically inspired to get things done around the house. This year it was cutting the grass and sucking flood water out of the carpet in the basement. And I actually enjoyed it. Happy times!

Even before our son was born my wife began giving me cards on Father's Day, based on the hypothesis that I was father to whatever collection of fuzzy critters we happened to have living with us at the time. This has continued throughout the years, as we raised our slightly less fuzzy critter and put him through college.

In the way of a gift my wife also picks me up a neat little assortment of what she considers to be "dad" things. In the early days, I would get something like a sleeve of floating golf balls, a testament to my self-confidence and my psychological inability to lay up on a long water hole.

This year she got me a box of adhesive bandages (given my enthusiasm for life and relative lack of physical coordination, I go through a lot of these in a year), a box of Tiger Balm Liniment Pads (arthritis has pretty much taken over for the thrill of trying to coax a three-wood shot across the water hazard), and a heavy-duty room deodorizer kit – do I really need to comment on that?

She also got me a t-shirt that has already become my new favorite article of clothing. It has a picture of a 1966 VW Microbus on it, along with a surf board, a ukulele and some palm trees. Below this scene are the words, "Where It All Began."

It would be difficult to explain why that shirt meant so much to me the instant I saw it; how closely it touches some of my deepest feelings and fondest memories. It has to do with my own father and his prized VW Microbus, our traditional family trips to the beach on Christmas Day when I was very young and we were living in Hawaii, and the ukulele he gave me on one of those Christmas mornings such a long time ago that kicked off my lifelong love affair with music.

My father has been gone for almost 40 years now. He wasn't around to see my brother and me graduate from college. He never got a hug from either one of his daughters-in-law. He wasn't around to teach any of his grandchildren how to skin a bluegill.

But that shirt is a perfect reminder of how good it was sometimes – back where it all began. We still miss you dad. Happy Father's Day.

Copyright ©2009 Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group.

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