Smartmom’s first Father’s Day without her dad wasn’t easy. They
always did something special on that night. Usually, her dad — aka
Groovy Grandpa — and Mima Cat came over for dinner. While Hepcat
cooked risotto or lamb, she and her dad would stand in the kitchen, and
he’d tell tales of his college days at U.C. Berkeley, or working at
Papert, Koenig and Lois, that 1960s advertising firm where he wrote ads
for Robert Kennedy’s Senate campaign, Quisp and Quake Cereals and the
New York Herald Tribune.
Groovy Grandpa would gingerly sip from Hepcat’s collection of Scotch
(some Oban, Balvenie or Laphraiog) and compare them, like the
connoisseur he was. He always gave Hepcat a bottle for his birthday.
Smartmom loved those evenings with her dad at the apartment,
especially when her father would sit down at the Casio piano and play
his free-form jazz. He had no formal training and couldn’t read music,
but somehow he managed to bang out tinkly renditions of some of his
favorite Cole Porter songs.
For a Father’s Day gift, Smartmom would usually go to the Community
Bookstore and buy him a book on one of his favorite topics like
philosophy, jazz, bird watching, or horse racing.
He’d immediately start reading it and confirm that it was a very good choice.
“How’d you know I’ve been wanting to read this?” he would ask.
A couple of years ago, Groovy Grandpa told Smartmom that he wasn’t a
big fan of the Father’s Day holiday, but he appreciated the fact that
she and Diaper Diva made such a big deal about it. Now Smartmom wonders
why he wasn’t a big fan. Or maybe he was just kidding.
Last year, Smartmom didn’t write a column about her dad for Father’s
Day because when he first got sick, he asked her not to mention his
illness in her column. She thought a Father’s Day column would be too
maudlin, sad and elegiac.
About a week later, Groovy Grandpa said, “I thought you’d write a ‘Smartmom’ about me for Father’s Day.”
Smartmom was startled and stricken. There was something so poignant
about hearing him say that. So this Father’s Day, she kept flashing on
that conversation and feeling guilty and sad.
Truth is, she never wanted to admit to him that she knew he was
dying. Now Smartmom feels bad about all the conversations they didn’t
have. And terrible that she didn’t write about him last Father’s Day.
Not a day goes by when Smartmom doesn’t think of her dad. There’s so
much she never got around to saying. That’s life (or death).
But it still doesn’t make her feel any better.
Smartmom found herself feeling low energy on Father’s Day. In the
quiet of Sunday morning, while Hepcat and the kids were asleep,
Smartmom went through a box of old letters that her lovable and funny
dad wrote to his parents just weeks prior to the birth of Smartmom and
Diaper Diva in 1958:
Dear Folks,
Birth is expected in a couple of weeks, and I am pretty nervous
about it. Up until now, the idea of a baby (babies) has been pretty
much taking them to their first ballgame, dressing them in Eton suits
and listening to their first gurgles of gratitude.
But now, the day-by-day reality becomes clearer, and I wonder
how we’ll handle such things as squalling nights, plastic ducks all
over the bathroom and shelves full of those terrible picture books. To
say nothing of colic, uninhibited bowel habits and stubborn refusal to
eat. In addition, the idea of pacing the hospital waiting room for
hours, without knowing what’s happening to Edna, doesn’t strike me as
better than going to the movies.
Oh, well, it will all be over soon and the joy of having them
will, I suppose, put the doubts away. Did you like me at first, or did
it take a few years?
Smartmom wonders how long it took her dad to like her and her
sister. From the black-and-white photos, it looks like he was
quite fond of his twin newborns quite early on. But who knows?
There is so much children don’t know about the inner lives of their
parents. When you’re young, you can’t even imagine them having a life
before you were born. Finding letters, notebooks, and journals is such
a powerful way to learn more about the parents you think you know.
The night of Smartmom’s first Father’s Day without her dad, there
was no standing in the kitchen hearing vintage stories. There was no
jazzy tinkling of the plastic Casio keys. There was no tasting of
Hepcat’s special Scotch.
But there were memories. Plenty of them. And the letters. They're no substitute for the
man but they offer a coveted insight into what was going on in his head.
