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This is Father's Day, and even though I'm currently published through the beginning of July decided to come back to this one and share a father's story. Something that happened to me back in 1995, when my son Andrew was four years old.
My wife, Chenjean, was at her sister's house in Houston with Andrew one night, and I was on the half-hour drive down to meet them and was fiddling with the car radio. It was a clear night, and some stations were coming in from far away as I scanned for something to listen to.
The dial stopped at a station that was broadcasting in Spanish, and something about it caused me to pause there and listen. There was a small boy singing his heart out. It was his tone that stopped me in my tracks.
I say tone because even though it was a song it sounded like a plea. The boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, was begging his father to spend more time with him. As the song progressed it became terse, and finally the boy, via the lyrics, offered to pay his father whatever he was making at work to spend those hours with him. He implored, "Please, just tell me how much you make and I'll pay you that much to be with me!"
My God, tore me right at the heart. Though the station was far away, crackling with interference because of the distance, that part of the song came in clearly enough for me to catch every word, and soon faded afterwards. I never found out where the broadcast was from, but will never forget the moment or where I was when the song came through (on Chimney Rock). And I daresay that the DJ who put that song on never knew the impact of his selection in a faraway land. I have often since thought of it and the power of its lyrics.
I think I might have done OK as a dad to both of my children - after all, the reason for my return to teaching in 1991 was so that I'd have that time to spend with them summers and holidays. But is it ever enough? I'd made arrangements for the quantity, but was the quality there? Any dad that cares will ask himself such questions. I wasn't sure, so tried to make up for any deficit by writing Andrew a letter almost every day for a period of three years. I think it was a worthwhile endeavor (one I repeated for Allison five years later, but for a shorter time period), but ironically at times I'd tell him to go play by himself while I cranked one out!
I'd recommend those letters to anyone who has children. Andrew didn't even know they were written to him until he was twenty years old, when they were given to him on his birthday. They were a total surprise, and it took a while to read through the body of several hundred single-spaced pages. Allison found out about hers before she was twenty, but said she wanted to wait to receive them, and they were just as impactful when she did get them.
I have a friend who latched on to the idea after I presented it to him but, sadly, did not begin until after his little son passed away.
So this is my Father's Day message, and I should be glad if it finds meaning to anyone out there in blogland. Becoming a father is nothing more than biology, but this business of being a DAD is the most important job in the world, and a title that should be cherished above all others.
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