COMMENTARY ON FATHERHOOD : Expressed in Offbeat Ways, a Dad’s Devotion Shines Through : He has a whole collection of vacuum cleaners and more dog houses than dogs. But no kids were ever in them.
In this area of ours, where men are apt to signify their manhood with a Mercedes, my husband stands proudly by his vacuum. Actually, he has a whole collection of them, including several Dustbusters, a couple of uprights and some specialty types. There’s a flashlight-size brush to sniff up the dust around computer keys, and a small hand-held canister for the car that plugs into the cigarette lighter. My favorite is the large wet-and-dry “shop vac,” because it sucks in whatever the sink backs up and the toilet overflows.
Our neighbors are used to my husband keeping odd hours, so they’re quite pleasant about the noise when he vacuums at night. He’s usually in the garage, going over the old, wall-to-wall, yellow shag carpet he laid out there. Or he could be in the back yard, vacuuming one of the dog houses again. We have three dog houses, each one large enough to hold both of our dogs. In other words, we can sleep six.
The houses all have different features, like the Madonna Inn, only for dogs. One is an igloo style. The other two are standard Snoopy types, but with windows added to the walls, probably for aesthetics since the dogs can see out the doors anyway. I’m not sure why we have three houses. My husband didn’t go into the details and I don’t blame him.
Whether he’s vacuuming, fixing up dog houses, or whatever, something about the way this man does things reminds our boys and me of Chevy Chase in the “Vacation” movies. It’s not just Chevy’s misadventures on the road to good intentions, like taking wrong turns on the way to Wally World, or putting up a roof-full of house lights at Christmas. Like Chevy, i.e., “Clark Griswold,” whatever our Dad does, he starts out with that same corny, contagious enthusiasm, followed by innocent dismay over the inevitable obstacles. Then comes a silly, cute, satisfied smile because he’s accomplished exactly what he hoped for--loving family feelings.
In this society of ours, where slick talk is easily confused with being smart, my husband can be counted on to say exactly what he means, which is wise. Needless to say, fathers can use a lot of wisdom.
On our youngest son’s first day of preschool, his little body was stiff with fear. I tried my best to assure him that he’d have fun with nice teachers and friends. But no matter what reason I offered, clearly, “he wasn’t havin’ any.”
My husband hadn’t said much until we three got to the classroom door. Then he knelt down eye to eye with his tintype little boy and asked: “Will you wait for me till I come back?” When your son’s fear is too heavy, you don’t help with reasons--you help him carry the load.
Relief broke across that 4-year-old face like sunrise over Grand Canyon as his Dad’s message sank in: “My father wants me. He’s coming back here. I am not being abandoned today!” When our middle son graduated from junior high, he was only 5 feet, 3 inches and still praying for body hair, but he was brave enough, nonetheless, to ask one of the maturing beauties to the graduation dance. She was tall and slender at 12, and so lovely, dressed in strapless pink satin. In more ways than one, our son was in way over his head.
Home by midnight, they stood uneven but smiling at the front door. “He carried it off!” I thought with brief relief. Then he dropped the bomb: “Everyone’s going to a party at a hotel now. Can I go too?” A party at midnight? At a hotel? In the eighth grade? How could we possibly agree? So, the pink-satin princess was driven away and our son just stood in the entry, staring down, watching his self-esteem run all over the floor.
Helplessly, we watched too for a moment, but then Dad spoke up: “Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s have a beer and watch dirty movies!” When your son misses a step to manhood, you can, if you’re his father, help him take two steps in its place.
Our deflated young grad looked up at his Dad and visibly started pumping back up again. Back in the family room Dad poured them each an inch of beer and started flipping the channels for something to watch. In minutes, with beer untouched and an old movie quietly droning, our son was sound asleep in his chair. As I write, I have this vivid picture: Dad carrying his 12-year-old graduate, still in coat and tie, upstairs to bed.
In this time of ours, when honesty rarely seems as important as looking good, my husband never fails to tell it like it is, which is about effective as any way to talk to your teen-ager.
Our oldest son was about 15 when the classic adolescent changes started. Now, having fun meant being with friends, eye contact was for mirrors, and agony was deciding which white T-shirt was the right one to wear.
There were also changes in certain family routines. A goodby, for example, was still a hug for Mom, but now only a quick “See ya!” for Dad. Soon enough, though, Dad spoke to the heart of the matter:
“Why can’t I still have a hug, like Mom?”
“Because I’m too old now.”
“I’m not too old, though,” said Dad. “How about a hug at home where your friends can’t see?” Our teen-ager paused to consider the ramifications and then agreed.
A few years have passed since these times, but the boys are especially thoughtful on Father’s Day. The youngest survived preschool and has just started college. He’ll be driving home for the weekend. The middle one, now big enough to carry his father upstairs, express-mailed him something that awaits on the mantle. The oldest son has already written his Dad a letter. It concludes:
“You need to understand that I can see through to your heart as the creator of my own and for me, forever, your heart is the epitome of fatherly love.” It’s nice that he wrote--a card wouldn’t have been quite the same. In this world of ours, the roots of men’s loneliness are so desperately deep that poet laureates sing of “father anger,” trying to grieve their pain. Men gather in groups or go on retreats to support each other in their common loss: a father’s wisdom and guidance, the feel of a father’s love.
So, what will our boys inherit from their father, this kind of offbeat, honest guy with a penchant for vacuums? Eventually, they’ll get his Hoovers, his Dustbusters, the shop vac, lots of extra disposable dirt bags, not to mention a wide variety of cleaning attachments.
Another legacy they’ll live with, as they go forward in their lives, is to carry within them their father’s gut-level love.
