My Father's Day

As you know by now, my father was rigidly opposed to having a good time. He lost his own father at a young age, was raised by a domineering and iron-willed mother during the Great Depression, fought in a World War, then worked in a bank for his entire career surrounded by people who believed banking was a serious, vitally important social and economic service that should not be transacted with even a hint of humor. For those reasons, I tried hard while I lived under his roof to cut him some slack. But the dude just wasn’t any fun.

I’ve also chronicled how weekends were spent doing strenuous, dangerous work in the oversized yard – excuse me, yards – and vacations were for the purpose of logging hundreds of miles in the station wagon to check states, cities, national parks, monuments, and roadside attractions off his long list of unfun places to visit.

But there was one day a year when AO threw discipline to the wind and permitted himself to relax. That was of course the special day set aside for fathers, or Father’s Day as it’s popularly known. You may fairly wonder at this point what a day of fun for dear old dad would look like. Well, here it is.

The date falls in the middle of June, and though we lived in Portland, Oregon where people are born with webbed feet, the weather was often sufficiently warm for AO to don his official summer outfit. This consisted of a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts, belted with a plain white T-shirt tucked in, dark dress socks and sandals, and clip-on shades over his prescription glasses.

If I haven’t mentioned it before, my father was basically bald, so in deference to his dermatologist who tracked the spots on his head, AO typically added the crowning touch of a vented porkpie hat to complete his fashion statement.

Now that you have the visual for this special day, here’s the rundown on celebratory relaxation. First was the obligatory breakfast in bed. Thankfully, he did not wear his official summer outfit for this opening act but instead sported the threadbare pajamas he wore every night of his life. Normally, it was mother Mary who prepared the tray replete with unseasoned scrambled eggs, burnt bacon, and dry toast for the feast, but as we grew older, Karen and I would sometimes join mom in the kitchen to whip up lumpy pancakes or French Toast made with thin-sliced Wonder bread. Since AO genuinely liked flavorless, over-cooked food, he was delighted with what he was served no matter what it was.

After a short cold shower – my father took what were known as ‘Navy showers’ in part to save on heating oil but mostly because he never really left the Navy – he would emerge from the master bedroom in his summer regalia and announce to the anxious family just what exactly was in store for Father’s Day.

Why we were anxious is a mystery because we knew full well what was in store for Father’s Day. Not a hike. Not a round of golf. Not a picnic in the park or on the beach. Not drinking beer and watching baseball. Not even reading a book and taking a long nap. No, this was a day to be spent puttering around the yard!

Since ‘yard work’ was officially off the table on this day, puttering did not involve mowing the lawns, trimming the hedges, pulling morning glory out of the ivy, spreading bark dust, or any of the other grueling, sweaty chores that filled typical weekend days. This activity, which was announced with the phrase ‘let’s neaten things up’ was limited to edging the lawns, weeding the flower beds, and operating the byzantine system he had devised using a variety of different sprinklers to water the grass, even though standing in one place with a garden hose would’ve been far more effective.

Understand that puttering around the yard truly was a form of relaxation for AO and judging from the smile on his face as he pulled weeds, and the whistling while he watered, he was obviously having fun. Which would’ve been swell if he didn’t think it would be even more fun if I joined him and we puttered together as father and son. Maybe it was a semantics issue, but I myself considered puttering to be actual yard work, and although it wasn’t quite so grueling and sweaty, it sure as shit wasn’t relaxing.

In compliance with federal and state child labor laws, there was always a lunch break for bologna sandwiches and a Pepsi, but the majority of my Father’s Day was strictly enforced team puttering. Even my mother and sister were conscripted.

At some point late in the afternoon, AO would announce to all that it was ‘time to get cleaned up’. This was one of the few statements my father ever made that I celebrated, as it meant the official end of the workday. Excuse me, puttering day. Tempering my enthusiasm, however, was that it also meant actually getting cleaned up which is another thing no young boy considers fun.

The routine Father’s Day feast for the Stromquist household was dinner at The Berry Farm. This simple suburban cafeteria-style burger-and-pie restaurant was chosen from the limited repertoire of four or five Portland eating establishments AO liked, patronized, and never strayed from. Not even once. It's not that he was philosophically opposed to the idea of trying new restaurants, he simply saw no reason to do so and consequently it never occurred to him.

I should note that even though The Berry Farm used less than fresh or high-quality ingredients, all of which were inexpertly prepared, it’s not like I was upset by the idea of having a burger. Still, I didn’t like pie very much and couldn’t help wondering if there was a better burger out there to be had. But Dad was pleased, and this was his day after all, so who was I to complain?

Once back home we would end the day with some television programming my father found entertaining. This meant the Lawrence Welk Show, which I found less enjoyable than yard work, or the Ed Sullivan Show, which could be entertaining if the feature act was The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. The Andrews Sisters not so much. Occasionally Father’s Day would coincide with a Bob Hope USO tour show and that was something AO considered a special treat. I never found the guy funny, but the shows weren’t a total loss because Bob always took along a Hollywood bombshell for the benefit of the troops.

I myself am not a father and being 66 years old having had a vasectomy, the chances of me becoming one are slim and fat. So I can only imagine the joys of fatherhood, what it feels like to be feted by a loving family on Father’s Day, and how I might choose to spend it. Day drinking would most likely be involved, and if you’re going down that road, it matters little or not at all what activity you’ve chosen…even puttering.

Happy Father’s Day to all you actual fathers. Enjoy your special day and do whatever you damn well please.