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It’s Father’s Day! We’re sharing some less-conventional stories this time around– stories that go a little deeper than usual, and explore the man behind the incredibly important role of “dad.”
An excerpt from Sara Crosby
What is one of your favorite trips that you've taken? What made it great?
Dad was a professor, an America Literature professor to be more precise. His family in NYC all had opinions about him becoming a Doctor of Medicine. As fate would have it he instead became a Doctor of Philosophy, which I have to admit suited him much better. A professor’s salary does not allow for many luxuries, but we had a comfortable home, food, clothing, and the occasional outing to a movie or for pizza. Family holidays did not find us on the ski slopes, at Disney Land or touring through Europe. No, my dad was a scholar who taught and was a noted expert on Emerson, Thoreau and Bronson Alcott, father of Louisa May. He was cut from the same cloth as these great philosophers and transcendentalists, was inspired by them, and believed in their perspectives of the world around them. Basically Dad lived on Walden Pond in his head and spent a good deal of his adult life in search of that for himself and his family whether we wanted it or not.
An excerpt from Charles Garcia
The Angel of Speer Boulevard
A promising summer morning in the mid 1980’s greets and teases me with thoughts of taking a day off from work. I fight the temptation to casually lounge the day away and begin gathering some items to complete a light carpentry job in Boulder. With my circular saw firmly gripped in my hand I half heartedly head to my car parked on Holbrook Street in front of our home.
A quick turn of the key and the trunk opens wide. I drop my saw on top of the assorted hand-held tools crammed into the storage space. I push the sun-warmed hatch down, and to my great surprise, a man is standing on the sidewalk intently staring at me. He studies me with unblinking deep brown eyes. He has unexplainably materialized like a character from Star Trek, beaming down to my precise coordinates. A perplexing few seconds of silence grips the air around us.
“Good morning,” I venture.
“We need help,” is the immediate but soft-spoken reply.
An excerpt from Scott Gaddy
As a child, were you closer to your father or your mother?
I probably did a lot more with Dad, going into the woods, getting out on the water or exploring some backroad. I kept him company when he would tend to his garden, cursing the squirrels for helping themselves to the best of the crop. I was there to hand him tools or hold a flashlight when something around the house needed repair. While on task, he’d narrate the fix in this kind of slow, labored cadence. Even a person who was only half attentive couldn’t help but walk away with some new skill base.
Those early years with Dad would produce a hundred other short stories. Good ones and others we weren’t going to be seeing eye to eye on. I can’t help but think there was something important missing between us. It has something to do with a feeling more than tangible fact. While we were always a Father and Son team, I can’t say we were always buddies. Not buddies like your best friend from school. Not like the guys you rode bikes with, all the while swapping lies. Maybe my experience is a common one. Maybe, but I was a melancholy, introverted kind of kid. I had a tendency to let my thoughts wander, imagining myself being somewhere else, while Dad was needing more focus. Can’t help but believe that lack of focus had a lot to do with our relationship overall.
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