With Father’s Day this Sunday, we’re thinking about men. We hope you’ll enjoy reading or re-reading last year’s timeless Father’s Day posts.
Cathy writes about being the daughter of a hard-working immigrant, who now well into his eighties, keeps on keepin’ on with a joke repertoire powered by Mac. Connie gets real about how her handsome musician father took a powder in her youth. Melissa reflects on being a child going through divorce and coming out the other side. For young Prudence, her father was an impressive presence, but he had other priorities. Carine paints a picture of her colorful dad and their spirited relationship and Christie’s loving portrait of her son speaks to the responsibility of raising boys.
Read more about heartfelt and heartbreaking experiences with men both close and far >> (Scroll down the page to see all the posts.)
My father is a very eccentric guy. At 84, he wears a ponytail, is extremely engaged in what might be termed “new-age” thinking, and he long ago gave up meat, alcohol and other favorite things as part of his personal spiritual quest. When my father develops an opinion on something, it’s because he’s spent long hours debating the thing with his intelligent, intellectually stimulated and very sharp mind; so, even though he loves long discussions on controversial positions, it’s easier to relocate the Grand Canyon than getting him to change his mind. Read more
The summer I turned six my mother packed my younger brother and me into the car for a road trip. Just before we left I remember sitting in the backseat of the Karmann Ghia at 732 Jefferson (I’d learned our address in kindergarten.) From my vantage point I could only see my father from the waist down. From the front seat my mother would say something to my father. Then he’d walk back into the house and return with some item, which he handed through the window. As I remember, this went on several times with me watching his long legs go to and from the house. On the last trip he returned and handed the iron to my mother. And then we left. My father is a six foot five, so even as we drove down the street I could not see his face just his legs. Read more
“On Men.” Quite a title, yes? I’ve spent way too much psychic energy “on men”, literally and figuratively. The darlings.
My father and mother divorced when I was six, my sister was four. When he left us, he promised he was just leaving mom, not us. He lied. He was so handsome, funny and charming; a musician, and we loved him wildly. I learned from him, that part of love was expecting a broken heart. He disappointed me one time too many and I didn’t speak to him for 15 years. Read more
I don’t’ really see myself as a “daddy’s girl” but I sure do love my dad, and yes, he spoils me.
In some ways he’s typical of his generation, distant but close. Born in Poland in 1922, he lived through the horrors of WWII, lost his entire family and amazingly rebuilt a life in France, then the U.S. Both he and my mother worked in garment factories in New Jersey, then their own lumber and hardware store in South Central, L.A.; immigrants dedicated to giving their children everything they didn’t have. Read more