129 The Father's Day Card

Picking out appropriate cards for a no nonsense, tough old bird like my dad was never easy--didn't golf, or fish, was never gushy or lovey-dovey, didn't do any of the stuff that Hallmark Dads did year after year in muted masculine colors. But this last Father's Day card, (selected on the day and hour he died) without giving credit, superimposed a Bible passage over a newspaper stock report, "spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge." I recognize that this passage refers to the Spirit of the Lord resting on the shoot from the stem of Jesse in Isaiah 11 because it is repeated in baptism in the Lutheran service. Still, it seemed to fit--particularly since I saw him many times pouring over the newspaper business section or working cross word puzzles. The words and art. I took the card along to Illinois and slipped it into the casket.

Most of us are "adult children" of our parents for many more years than we are "minor children," therefore it is never too late to be a good parent, or a grateful child. As a child I yearned for a dad that would give me a hug or attend my school functions or praise me for good grades (although I don't think I knew any fathers like that). Although I noticed he worked 12 hour days, visited his parents every Sunday, never missed church, and treated my mother with respect and love, it doesn't mean a whole lot when you are a typical, self-centered, moody adolescent. As an adult, it gives you strength and comfort.

It never occurred to me in the 1950s that he probably didn't enjoy driving a car-load of screaming teen-age girls to the roller rink on his only day off, or that he didn't have to let me pasture a horse in our back yard (which he personally rode home from the farm where I purchased him to be sure he was safe). And having my mother be the primary parent means I still remember the occasional ice cream treats he'd bring home, or that he would drive us 40 miles to see a movie once in awhile. But the memory that brings the tears is Dad with my sister Carol: first, carrying her out of our quarantined house to be admitted to the hospital for polio in 1949, and then standing beside her hospital bed to support her own children as the life support was removed after a stroke in 1996.

No, it is never too late to be a good parent or a grateful child.