Unicorn (Unicorn@Indenial.com)
Sun, 20 Jun 1999 20:35:32 -0400
"What Is A Father?"
A father is a person who is forced to endure
childbirth without an anesthetic. He growls
when he feels good and laughs very loud
when he is scared half-to-death.
A father never feels entirely worthy of the
worship in a child's eyes. He is never
quite the hero his daughter thinks. Never
quite the man his son believes him to be.
And this worries him sometimes. (So he
works too hard to try to smooth the rough
places in the road of those of his own who
will follow him.)
A father is a person who goes to war
sometimes... and would run the other
way except that war is part of his only
important job in his life, (which is making
the world better for his child than it has
been for him).
Fathers grow older faster than people,
because they, in other wars, have to stand
at the train station and wave goodbye to
the uniform that climbs on board.
And, while mothers cry where it shows,
fathers stand and beam... outside... and
die inside.
Fathers are men who give daughters
away to other men, who aren't nearly
good enough, so that they can have
children that are smarter than anybody's.
Fathers fight dragons almost daily. They
hurry away from the breakfast table, off
to the arena which is sometimes called
an office or a workshop. There, with
callused hands, they tackle the dragon
with three heads; Weariness, Works, and
Monotony. And they never quite win the
fight, but they never give up.
Knights in shining armor; fathers in shiny
trousers. There's little difference as they
march away each workday.
I don't know where father goes when he
dies, but I've an idea that, after a good rest,
wherever it is, he won't just sit on a cloud
and wait for the girl he's loved and the
children she bore. He'll be busy there too...
repairing the stars, oiling the gates,
improving the streets, smoothing the way.
Author Unknown
************************************************************
"Daddy & Me"
Copyright @1989 Susan M. Pope
{SUSANMPOPE@aol.com}
Reprinted with expressed permission.
You stood 10 feet tall, legs spread, hands on your hips,
and a smile on your face as you looked down at me
sitting on the floor. You reached down to pick me up.
This is my first memory of you.
I remember "Deedle Deedle Dumpling, My Son John"
and "I Went to the Animal Fair" that you sang to me
as we rocked together in the old platform rocker by
the fireplace.
I remember the sandbox you made me and the sand
you hauled to it yourself. I remember the swing you
built me and how, every evening when you returned
home from work, I'd beg for a push and you'd oblige.
I remember the kites we flew.
I remember lazy summer Sunday dinners with you
dressed in your white dress shirt and you thumping
your wrist and drumming your fingers at me on the
kitchen table. I remember you taught me to whistle.
I remember trips to Blanchard's store for Mary Jane's
in the old Chevrolet -- just you, me, and Skippy. And,
later, trips to the ice cream store. I remember Hot
Cross Buns on Easter. And Mozeberth's chicken in
the middle of the night. And the trips we took to Aunt
Gladys' where I always got a Hershey. And the trips
to every tree lot in town to find just the right Christmas
tree. And that one special gift-wrapped package at
Christmas that was always the best even though I
knew it would be clothes. I remember the bottle of
orange wine hidden in your wardrobe that no one
ever drank.
I remember the tickles you gave and the rides on your
foot and how only you could get out a splinter painlessly.
I remember, too, the milk of magnesia, the Merthiolate,
and the spankings -- but there were only a few.
I remember, too, not so long ago, you said to me,
"I love you." You touched my heart, and, for you,
I did not cry.
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