June 14, 2000
Father's Day: No ties, just a thank you
By Garret Leiva
Herald editor
This Sunday, all across America, millions of men will receive another tie they'll wear once, a tool they'll never use, or various gadgets and gizmos destined for the back of the closet. For most men, it is the greatest gift in the world - fatherhood that is.
Father's Day. Since 1927, a date on the calendar where we honor dad, daddy, daddy-o, pops, pa, sir, or the old man. It is the one day out of the year when fathers are forbidden to mow the lawn, encouraged to play golf or go fishing, and given TV remote carte blanche.
When I was younger, the third Sunday in June meant saying happy Father's Day in a big way. After saving up my allowance or advancing myself an interest free loan from my sister's piggy bank, I would take a trip into town to Big Bill's Variety Store. Despite the cold, hard cash burning a hole in the pocket of my Toughskin jeans, I'd walk right past the rows of model airplanes and straight to the greeting card section.
While others stood scratching their heads debating the merits of rhyming vs. free verse stanzas, I adhered to a simpler philosophy: bigger is better. My criteria for selecting a card followed this easy formula: height x width > than a human head = purchase. If the card had a "dad" dog driving a car, mowing the lawn or performing some equally impossible biped task it was an added bonus. Pop-up cards were even cooler.
Bottom line, when you're seven years old nothing says 'I love you dad' like a Father's Day card that required an envelope milled from a sequoia tree.
While my dad received his fair share of tacky ties on Father's Day - many which still reside in the back of his closet - even the purple paisley necktie pales in comparison to his greatest gift downfall: golf. Sleeves of golf balls, golf umbrellas, golf towels, golf tees, books on golfing, golf shirts, golf shorts, golf socks. Everything but a "My other car is a golf cart" bumper sticker and the golf cart to go with it.
At least if he ever gets tired of the game he can start his own 'slightly used' pro shop without resorting to snagging golf balls from the driving range and painting the stripes white.
While I lack a true passion for the game of golf, there are several characteristics and quirks I have inherited from my father. His first name is my middle name. We share the same hairlines and wry sense of humor. We are both storytellers - my father in the oral tradition, myself the written word. We both believe that yelling at the television will change the outcome of football games and horse races.
My father has also bestowed on me strong ethics, a sense of compassion (despite being from New York) and the ability to drive for hours without stopping; even for directions. I also know how to bet a trifecta, play five-card stud poker, speak a few words in Spanish and live life to its fullest.
There are others in my life that have been fatherly figures. Uncle Dick who taught me about integrity and how to tie a slipknot. Grandpa Scofield who demonstrated determination and pulling weeds out by their roots. Mr. Millard who showed me the great outdoors and how to troll for pike. 'Dad' Charette who raised a beautiful daughter and taught his son-in-law the mystic art of do-it-yourself.
Over the past few years, Father's Day has taken on a new connotation as my childhood friends started having children.
Suddenly, the bar of maturity has been raised from two doors to four doors to mini vans. The friend who tried - with my help- constructing a hot air balloon out of garbage bags and his dad's blow torch is now a father of two. Which makes the prospect of fatherhood frightening since my DNA will undoubtedly contain the precise genetic coding responsible for hatching harebrained ideas.
This Father's Day, I've decided no ties, no gigantic greeting cards, no exploding golf balls. So dad, there's no need to clean out the back of your closet, not for a few words of thanks.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com