1. Father

Father, vater, pater, pitr, padre, père. Many ways of saying the same thing. How is it that only in the past century, we take one day in homage of our fathers? The YMCA has taken some credit in the starting of Father’s day. Back in the early 1900’s at a Spokane based YMCA, they decided to dedicate a day honoring fathers. Calvin Coolidge supported the idea of a national holiday honoring the father, and Lyndon Johnson signed a proclamation stating the third Sunday in June Father’s day.

What can I say about my father? So much to say, so little way of expressing my feelings toward him. Going through a little lightning memory trip may help.

Every evening after dinner, I remember the stories. It seems like hundreds of stories, some true, some doctored, and some just plain made up. But after a big dinner, it didn’t matter. We didn’t need a TV; we needed the pleasant story telling of my father to jump-start our imaginations.

Karda was the topic of many of the stories. I don’t remember quite what Karda was. I believe he was a hybrid of magical flying dragon, crocodile and kangaroo all wrapped up into one. Karda would take us kids on heroic journeys in far lands of ‘never-never land.’ I always had thought of Karda as my guardian angel in these adventures. I’d dream of him being a wise all-knowing being. To me, Karda was like the Lion in the C.S. Lewis story The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Whenever we were in trouble during the adventurous stories, Karda would always come and save the day and if we were lucky, maybe bring us to a place where we could eat our candies and deserts all the time!

That flash of memory comes up in my head when I walk in the woods. The woods can be a magical place and is a place that will always be special to me. That hasn’t always been the case. I recall a time when my family was camping in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and my father decided to take us on “an adventure.” Something like the adventures we have every night after dinner with Karda, but without the magical “dragon-dile-roo.”

As we turn onto service roads in the woods in our blue early ‘80s Ford Van, it got darker and darker. Finally, we hit a stump or ditch or something, and we are stuck. No way of moving. The front right tire was hanging in the air with no way of getting any traction. The more my father tried to drive us out of the ditch, the more we wore away traction. So, we all get out of the van, and probably as a joke, my father mentions wild bears being out here. Now I am scared out of my wits, and in the state of mind I am in, I expect to see Karda swoop down and pick us all up, put us into his pouch and lead us back to the safe campground. Of course that didn’t happen. (Or did it? Who was Karda?)

My father took lead and told us all to gather rocks and logs to put under the tire to gain traction. Of course! That makes sense. And after about half an hour, we were on our way back to the campground in our old pouch of a blue van. It’s funny to think how my father loves to wander in the woods. He just may have forgotten that he was wandering with six kids and a very understanding wife with him.

That’s another thing. The wandering in the woods has become a favorite pass time of mine. I’d like to think I gained that from my father. There have been several instances where I have caught myself day dreaming and walking with my dog in the woods behind my apartment. And I snap through another lightning memory of walking through the woods in the Smokey Mountain National Forest.

There was a waterfall up at the top of a pathway that went through the woods. My mother and father and little brother and I had driven up to the Gatlinburg area for a little break from the hustle and bustle of every day life. We all began walking together, but had separated a little bit. I seem to remember a bit of an argument I had with my father, and didn’t want to wander with him at this point.

My father and little brother forged ahead leaving my mother and I. There was a beautiful stream that the path followed, and I had a great idea. Why not just walk up the stream to the waterfall? I got down into the streambed and started my wandering up through the small rapids. Absentmindedly, I lost track of where my mother was who seemed particularly enthralled with taking pictures of the wild flowers around.

After fording the creek for over an hour, I became a bit concerned about my whereabouts. I hadn’t seen anyone in forty-five minutes, and thought I could be getting lost. No, couldn’t be. This creek will lead to the waterfall, I know it. Well, after another thirty minutes of walking the creek bed, I decided to just forage up the side of the mountain and reach the top of the falls.

I reached the top of the mountain to see that there were no falls, just trees, and other mountains all around me. I half-heartedly yelled for help. Knowing my father was already a little pissed at me, I decided better of it, and tried the road I’d already taken. I made my way back to the creek bed, and rushed my way back to a place where the path had met the creek. I ran up the mountain to the falls, not making it all the way. After over two hours of separation from my parents, I’m sure they made their way back down the path to look for me.

Good thing I was in shape. I sprinted down the path to the car. There they were, frantic that they had lost their son in the Appalachian Mountains. Whatever it was we argued about, it was forgotten. I’d like to think my father realized that I was very much like him in my wanderings.

I can always close my eyes and see him wandering, thinking, observing things. I see him on a beach with my older brother. Two men walking, one wise in his years, one trying to get there. As they walk, the older holds his hand out and presents a small gift, a token of gratitude to the younger man. A talisman for being the oldest in the great family. For showing care and understanding to his younger siblings and to his mother and father. I see them walking, not hearing what they are saying. The waves gently roll upon their feet, and I’m sure the seawater is mixed with extra drops of tears from the two men. The conversation would make women weep, make old men proud, and make little boys strive to be one of these two men.

Lightning memories. Those times when your past comes back at you in a sudden flash. Times when you can look at a picture, and actually imagine and feel what is going on at the instant the shutter snaps.

I see myself as a reflection of my father. Not a perfect duplicate, but similar in oh so many ways. I’d like to think that he has passed so much onto me, and I will be able to pass along to my son the very same things. I think that is how we progress in society. The passing along of things from fathers to sons, from mothers to daughters, and from brothers to sisters. There is an uncanny way of how we can keep the good and throw out the bad. It may not always happen in a flash, we do have our bad habits and ways of doing things. But I think if we pay attention to our lightning flashes, we can move on….
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