Fathers Day

One of the salubrious effects of holidays is that they sometimes cause us to ponder those things that matter most but are not timely and often ignored. So it was last Sunday, that in my quiet moments I reflected on my fathers. I thought most about my adopted father, I supposed because I spent my formative years in his company.

It was an interesting start to the relationship, because I chose to make him my father. Being adopted at such a late age (11) I had veto rights. But I had spent enough years in foster homes and orphanages and the like that the idea of permanently joining a family was so appealing that I was not inclined to be picky about such relatively trivial matters as culture, attitudes and interests.

As a result, I found myself a son to Fred Aho, who I then thought could not possibly be more unlike me than any man I had met. I loved sports, while his athletic interests were strictly limited to bowling and occasionally volleyball at church picnics and family reunions. I remember getting him a baseball glove as a gift, hoping it would inspire him to take up the game. It was a first baseman's mitt, which seemed appropriate for someone of his girth. Alas, our few efforts at playing catch ended in frustration (mine) as I'd have to dig in the hedges for all the balls that he had missed. He had given it the college try, but I was still disappointed and unfulfilled.

We were unlike in almost every other way. He was quiet, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I was loud, obnoxious and keenly intent on being the center of attention. He adored food, for which I could care less. His idea of a great Saturday night was visiting relatives at their farm and taking a sauna. I would have preferred activities that generated a little more adrenaline.

To the best of my recollection, we had only two things in common--playing cards and The Tonight Show. Even as a kid I was a night owl, and we used to stay up and watch Johnny Carson almost every night. It started at 10:30, and he rarely made it through the entire show (whereas I rarely missed any of it). It was the one shared ritual in our lives, neither one of us saying a word, him playing solitaire and me looking over a sports magazine. In retrospect, it was a rather meager form of bonding, but we were together and it was, I presumed, what fathers and sons did.

Dad also taught me to play cards--double-solitaire, spades, diamonds, rummy, cribbage and even bridge. Mom was a terrible card player, which used to frustrate him to no end. She just didn't see the point in it, and winning the game was never an important object for her. Further, she never grasped the strategic elements of the games. So their early efforts at social bridge were quickly aborted in favor of a longer marriage. I, on the other hand, loved playing cards with Dad, and he was always up for a game. We were competitive, but never bitterly so. I was neither upset when he won (because of his added experience and wisdom) nor surprised when I did (since even then I suffered from delusions of grandeur). So we played often, and when I would get bored and do something else, he would switch to solitaire, which I believe consumed at least 50% of the discretionary hours in the last 20 years of his life.

Despite our difference, I learned a lot from Dad, and wish I had learned more. He was always willing to work, and we spent many hours together in the garden. From him I learned how to plant and cultivate and weed. We would pick up aged manure from the country and mix it with soil when planting the tomatoes. Together we would pick rocks and turn soil. Every spring I had to till the garden, which only became fun after we got a gasoline-powered rototiller. And it wasn't just our yard that got our attention--we also mowed and trimmed and gardened at the church, and for widows and sick neighbors and others. I never enjoyed it at all, and did my best to get out of the responsibility, but he would have none of my excuses and so yard work become a habit. To my surprise, as an adult I have come to enjoy gardening in all its forms.

My dad was as honest as the day is long. He was humble and submissive. He was a great example to me, and though I may have been blessed with many talents that he lacked, I will labor all my days to match his examples of patience, charity and industry--traits that now, in the back half of my life, I view best over infinite horizons.