Father's Day

I'm writing this the day before Father's Day, which means I have no idea if my kids gave me a Mazda Miata or a $5 gift certificate to Dollar General. 

There are other possibilities, but I like to cover both ends of the spectrum, just to avoid surprises. 

I'm just joking. I don't think there's anyone on the planet in less need of stuff than me. 

I’d appreciate some acknowledgment, but a thumbs up and a small Butterfinger Blizzard would be plenty. 

This will be my first Father's Day without a father. That stings a little, but it's the way of the world. Actually, it's the best-case scenario. Certainly, no father would wish to outlive their children, but to be nearly 70 years old and adjusting to life as an orphan is a little odd. 

I shouldn't complain. My father died when I was 69 – I have friends who were 30, 20, even younger.  

I'm pretty comfy, settled into the recliner in my office. It's a grey, cloudy evening with a threat of rain in the air. I hear nothing except the wind in the trees, bird calls and the soft flapping of the Norwegian and Welsh flags that hang above the south door. A few minutes ago, a pair of Canadian geese with six goslings sailed across my line of sight, bobbing with the summer waves on Olson Lake. If I walk around the room, I move slowly, because I'm surrounded by mouse traps. There's a security breach that I've yet to track down, so I have five mouse traps in various nooks and crannies, and I catch about one mouse a week. There's a bottle of Welsh whiskey on a table to my left, but before you worry about my drinking problems, you should know it's two years old and the bottle is still half full.  

It is an atmosphere conducive to memories. I'm remembering standing outside the nursery at Methodist Hospital in Minneapolis waiting for strangers to walk by and say, “Wow, I wonder who that redhead belongs to?” That was my cue to say, “He's mine.” I remember dropping that same redhead off with the Marine Corps recruiter in St. Cloud, and my wife crying all the way to Sauk Centre. I remember our oldest daughter at about age six, her thick blonde hair cascading around her dirty face as she gleefully shows off the salamander collection she's accumulated in her wading pool. Then I think about her showing off her taekwondo moves at 17 and a few years later coming down the escalator at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport with our first grandchild who came to us from Ethiopia. I think about our baby sitting erectly on Tony the Pony as she performed at the Big Stone County Fair, then sitting on the lions in Trafalgar Square during a semester abroad, and stalwartly taking care of her mother when a just-in-case diagnosis had me in an ambulance headed to a heart ward in the Twin Cities. 

Today I was chatting with our favorite barista, and she asked what I was doing for Father's Day. I said, “My kids are taking me to a picnic, and that's fine, because I like my kids.” 

She said, “So do I!” 

So, I don't need the Miata, or the gift certificate. I don't even need the Butterfinger Blizzard.  

I've already gotten more than enough. 

Copyright 2024 Brent Olson