Old men celebrate Father’s Day like they celebrate their birthdays.
There are no expectations for either – to quote my Father, “I don’t need another damn sweater” –but woe to the family member who doesn’t meet those zero expectations.
Tricky events to navigate, indeed.
There are commemoration ‘prices of entry’, with a phone call the primary expectation; a ‘text only’ remembrance insufficient – we’re talking ‘Old Man Etiquette’- though an early text followed by a phone call counts.
For those following along, a phone call is critical.
The gift part is where it gets tricky.
A Father’s Day tradition when I was young was the ‘Giving of the Old Spice’: That magical moment when my Father would open the shabbily wrapped after shave and exclaim, with a straight face, “Wow, just what I was hoping for!”
Unknown if me Mother ‘made things right’ later that night, and I won’t think about that, or speak of it, ever again!
But no matter how they went, my Father always ended his Father’s Days with “Thanks! It was perfect, just the day I wanted!”
Maybe that’s why we kids we believed Old Spice to be more important than oxygen: It was the perfect gift for birthdays, Father’s Day, Christmas, Dad’s vasectomy – it always worked.
That was validated recently, when the Administration announced it was sending a tanker full of Old Spice to buoy Ukrainian spirits.
But Dad was genuinely excited the year we gave him a larger medicine cabinet to hold all his Old Spice.
Later, My Captor became adept at navigating the ‘Sweater Ban’. Fun, colorful socks were admissible, and my Dad was visibly excited the year he got the dog print socks.
My Captor even slipped in an ‘ugly sweater’ one year, an anxious moment that, but my Father being Lithuanian, it was hard to tell what he considered ugly.
Obviously, Mother’s Day celebrations have radically different expectations, and the consequences of ‘under-delivering’ more severe.
The key word in that thought – delivering – may explain why Mothers are more sensitive to being celebrated than Fathers: “I carried around -and pushed out – a bowling ball, and this is all the thanks I get?”
While fathers are only around for the fun part of the process. If done correctly, of course.
And now my children are grappling with my “Old Man Etiquette”, a complicated stew of what I observed from my own Father, a total lack of gift curiosity, and not really caring what people think.
Meaning I am simultaneously gift agnostic, indifferent, and slow to feign enthusiasm.
So, finding an acceptable gift is tricky.
Anything made or gifted by our Grandchildren is a treasure, even the year I received a bag of used Kleenex. I love ‘pictures of Pa’, and am particularly fond of those where I still have hair.
I have my own version of ‘Adult Garanimals’, so gifting a shirt or pair of shorts that can break into my ‘clothes rotation’ is a long shot.
But I am fond of practical gifts, like beer, pork, or asbestos.
I must admit that as I observe fellow Fathers and my sons-in-law open their gifts and cards, and appear happy and excited, I am mildly envious. Good for them.
Fortunately, My Captor has become adept at dealing with my ‘Sweater Ban’, and counseling our children accordingly.
And while Father’s Day is just beginning and who knows what awaits, I’m sure it will be a very relaxing day, filled with phone calls, beach, beer, and asbestos.
And tonight, when asked how my day was, I’ll respond “Thanks! It was perfect, just the day I wanted!”
TO ENHANCE YOUR ENJOYMENT OF THIS POST, PAIR IT WITH THE FOLLOWING SONGS:
Went searching for Father themed songs, and most are either lame, or lame. Then thought since its Father’s Day maybe I’d be self-indulgent and do ‘Deserted Island Albums’ – those albums you’d want with you if you were … you get the picture.
By the letter G I ran out of space on the island, so I wasn’t being selective enough. Some other time perhaps.
But today I will listen to “King of America” by Elvis Costello, and “Change” The Dismemberment Plan. And in honor of my sons-in-law, will play Wilco’s “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” quite loud for Luke, and “Doc and Dawg” by Doc Watson and David Grisman for Duncan.
And some other stuff too, since as you might have heard, I now have Spotify.
Brilliant Mistake Elvis Costello Always excited to see this played live
He thought he was the King of America
Where they pour Coca Cola just like vintage wine
Now I try hard not to become hysterical
But I’m not sure if I am laughing or crying
I wish that I could push a button
And talk in the past and not the present tense
And watch this hurtin’ feeling disappear
Like it was common sense
It was a fine idea at the time
Now it’s a brilliant mistake
She said that she was working for the ABC News
It was as much of the alphabet as she knew how to use
Her perfume was unspeakable
It lingered in the air
Like her artificial laughter
Her mementos of affairs
“Oh” I said “I see you know him”
“Isn’t that very fortunate for you”
And she showed me his calling card
He came third or fourth and there were more than one or two
He was a fine idea at the time
Now he’s a brilliant mistake
He thought he was the King of America
But it was just a boulevard of broken dreams
A trick they do with mirrors and with chemicals
The words of love in whispers
And the acts of love in screams
I wish that I could push a button
And talk in the past and not the present tense
And watch this lovin’ feeling disappear
Like it was common sense
I was a fine idea at the time
Now I’m a brilliant mistake
I was a fine idea at the time
Now I’m a brilliant mistake
Sentimental Man Dismemberment Plan
There is no heaven and there’s no hell
No limbo inbetween — I think it’s all a lie
Just a white light out to velvet black
and back to neutral gray — that’s all when we die
There is no fate that divides our day
no spirits hard at work, no unseen hand at play
people talk like it’s a given thing
I dunno what they mean — nor, I suspect, do they
I guess that’s OK
But how do you know I’m not a sentimental man?
is it really so hard to see these things? I guess it is
I really don’t know why, I think it’s right there
nobody’s perfect, but I’m doing what I can
and you best believe I’ll keep it real
I’m an old testament kind of guy
I like my coffee black, and my parole denied
even as I flake on every deal
I ever made with myself before the ink could dry
I should keep that one inside…
How do you know I’m not a sentimental man?
is it really so hard to catch that vibe? I guess it is
I couldn’t tell you why, I think it’s plain to see
certain distaster, and I really couldn’t say how the fuck I let this get that far
How do you know I’m not your biggest fan?
Can you really make this case so clear? I think you can’t
I don’t know why you try, I think it’s all a game
I’m under the covers and I’m telling you goodnight
‘cos I plan to have some real fine dreams
Spiders (KidSmoke) Wilco
Spiders are singing in the salty breeze
Spiders are filling out tax returns
Spinning out webs of deductions and melodies
On a private beach in Michigan
Why can’t they wish their kisses good
Why do they miss when their kisses should
Fly like winging birds fighting for the keys
On a private beach in Michigan
This recent rash of kidsmoke
All these telescopic poems
It’s good to be alone
Why can’t they say what they want
Why can’t they just say what they mean
Come clean, listen and talk
Hello private callers, IDs blocked
The sun will rise, we’ll climb into cars
The future has a valley and a shortcut around
Who will wear the crown of drowning award
Hold a private light on a Michigan shore
You fool me with a kiss of kidsmoke
From a microscopic home
It’s good to be alone
I’ll be in my bed
You can be the stone
That raises from the dead
And carries us all home
There’s no blood on my hands
I just do as I am told
Country Blues Doc Watson
Come all you good time people,, while I’ve got money to spend;
for tomorrow might be Monday,,and I’d neither have a dollar nor a friend.
When I’ve got plenty of money, good people, then my friends are all standing around.
But as soon as my pocketbook is empty,, not a friend on this earth can be found.
Well the last time I seen my little woman, good people,, she had a wine glass in her hand.
She’s a-drinking down her troubles, with a lowdown sorry man.
All around this old jailhouse this evening, good people,, forty dollars won’t pay my fine.
Corn whiskey has surrounded my body, poor boy,, pretty women’s a-troubling my mind.
My daddy taught me a-plenty, good people,, and my mama she taught me more.
Said “Son, if you don’t quit your rowdy ways, you’ll have trouble at your door.”
Well, if I’d a-listened to my mama, good people,, then I would not have been here today.
But a-drinking and a-shooting and a-gambling,, at home I cannot stay.
Give me corn bread when I’m hungry, good people,, corn whiskey when I’m dry.
Pretty women standing around me,, sweet heaven when i die.
Go dig a hole in the meadow, good people,, dig it deep in that cold, cold ground.
Come and gather around, all you kind friends,, and see this poor rounder go down.
And when I’m dead and buried, with my pale face turned to the sun,
will you stand around and moan, little woman,, and think of the way you have done?