The Real Gifts of a Father to His Children

There were many things wonderful about growing up in the ‘50s in a small, rural California community. Not the least was one’s identity. For family and schoolmates, my first name worked fine.

But growing up deprived of a nanny meant accompanying my parents into town (a once-a-week adventure from the farm). And there, among local merchants and proprietors, I was known as “John’s boy.” As in: “I know you. You’re John’s boy.”

John was my dad, and as one of those merchants once told me, he never came into town or the tractor shop or the feed store without one of his sons at his side. So naturally, it was a lot easier to remember him than four boys.

But it makes one think on a day like this about how our lives have been influenced by fathers who took us to town or to Little League games or to summer camp. We are the apples that fell from the tree, and, if we were lucky, not far from it.

In this case, the tree went through some pretty severe storms. Dad was born in a tiny Turkish village that, in the fall of 1915, was emptied out by local gendarmes and herded by foot and cattle car to the Syrian desert in the maw of the 20th century’s first genocide. His mother, sister and brother died of malnutrition and disease in the squalor of their displacement, but Dad survived, and at the age of 19, in 1921, was reunited with his father who had come to America years earlier.

He never wore his suffering on his sleeve, had a ready smile for his friends, worked hard and expected the same from his boys. He transformed getting five bucks for a date into a ritual of begging that we both knew would end in acquiescence. We just had to play the game. He was a big man poured into a little frame of 5 feet, 5 inches and 125 pounds with sharp elbows that were put to good use when he once shielded his 10-year-old son from the mayhem of a New York subway ride at rush hour.

Bottom line: While I didn’t always look for it, Dad was deeply engaged in my life.

And so, today, politics gets a bye in favor of using this opportunity to look beyond the obligatory gifts our dads receive to the less readily obvious gifts they give.

From this corner comes a vote for a one-day moratorium on the shortcomings of America’s dads in favor of a blue ribbon for the ones walking the walk.

* To those who rush through their day to coach an unruly band of shouting little ones on laying down a drag bunt, beating a full court press or putting a header through the goal posts.

* To those who give up a weekend of rest in favor of back spasms garnered on an Indian Guides expedition.

* To those with the guts to relearn algebra, explain a run-on sentence, or read--repeatedly--from the same Dr. Seuss book night after night.

* To those who don’t take their kids often enough to baseball games or fishing or camping, but still do those things when it counts.

* To those who drag what seems to be a moving van full of clothes, VCRs, CD players and assorted gear into a 4-by-4 dorm room--and then rush back to the car claiming it’s parked in a red zone so a daughter won’t see any tears (some lies are truly little white ones).

* And from our generation, to those who slogged their way through Europe and the Pacific making it safe for these words to be written.

To all of them goes the blue ribbon for being engaged. For not being among that craven minority who make news for spousal abuse or failure to make child support payments. For performances that would outshine the luster of a roomful of Oscars.

A couple of years back, I visited my hometown and tossed a credit card across the counter after making a purchase at a local store. The 60-something proprietor looked at the card and then looked up at me: “Say, aren’t you John’s boy?”

Music to my ears: “Yeah, that was my Dad.”

And while we’re at it, our thanks to all of them.