Happy Fathers’ Day


Dad did not have a very good week before Fathers’ Day. Early in the week a doctor diagnosed him as suffering from a combination of a pulled muscle and a possible kidney infection. For good measure, he also contracted a summer cold. All this kept him from going in to his job or working on the remodeling project at home. On top of everything else, Dad was alone for much of the week. Mom had decided to make the long, long drive to the base where my brother is now stationed to pick up the three granddaughters and bring them back. They arrived home early Friday evening.

That same evening I tied a lightweight pack stuffed with carefully-folded clothes onto the pillion seat of my motorcycle and headed for home as well. It was the first time I had attempted the two-and-a-half hour drive on two wheels. I knew the route by heart. The only challenge I anticipated involved a stretch of sixty-five-mile-an-hour divided highway in the middle of the route. I had never ridden on the “superslab” before.

Forty miles into the ride I stopped outside the largest city on the route to check my load, take a drink of water, and let my hands rest from the constant vibration of the handlebars. Then I took a bypass that skirted the edge of the city, negotiating several miles of road construction zone. When I reached the fast highway I turned up the wick all the way. The little engine threw back its head and roared. The bike vibrated more than ever before. The slipstream reached near-hurricane speeds. I soon saw that my little-girl bike could indeed cruise at sixty-five, though the steeper hills were a challenge.

I felt glad when I reached the next large town and slowed back to normal highway speed. From here the road was all hilly, curvy two-lane highway. After one more stop to rest I made it home without incident.

At Mom and Dad’s house Mom, Dad, the three nieces, and the dog all came out wanting hugs. Dad said he had figured I would try riding my bike home this time. We all went to supper at the local truck stop. Dad took the oldest niece on his motorcycle. I had had enough riding for one evening and went with the others in Mom’s vehicle. After we came back I gave the girls the presents I had gotten them after a conference in Hot Springs a few weeks ago.

The next morning Dad and I arose before everybody else and went into town to get some items for breakfast. After breakfast I helped Dad change out their defunct downstairs air conditioner for a much-needed new unit. Then we worked out a way of securing Dad’s collection of bikes—two large scooters, a 1978 Honda Express, and a Baja Doodlebug minibike—onto an old trailer Dad had brought out of retirement. That done, we rounded up the girls and all of our helmets (the younger girls had Hannah Montana riding helmets) and carefully drove the creaking trailer to the school parking lot on the far side of town.

After we had unloaded the bikes, Dad gave the girls some riding and safety instructions. And they were off! The youngest had the minibike all to herself; the older two took turns on the Express. I used the scooter to give rides to whichever niece was not currently riding on her own. Dad spent most of the time sitting at one end of the big parking lot with Mom, watching us ride.

The youngest, who still has an imperfect grasp on concepts like right of way, had to do laps on the parking lot by the ball field. The rest of us were allowed to ride on a somewhat smaller lot that connected to it as well. I felt a bit safer there away from the little wild card on wheels. Whenever there was temporarily nobody else riding on that lot, I would practice tight figure eights. Maneuvering like this with a passenger gave me some good experience. The figure eights reminded me of an old “Schoolhouse Rock” song from my childhood. This inspired me to sing several “Schoolhouse Rock” songs to Middle Niece as we rode. Oldest Niece and I talked about books and libraries. She not surprisingly said that she liked the “Twilight” series.

After an hour or so we loaded up and went home for lunch. I rode one of the larger scooters back to save the trouble of loading it. After lunch the two younger girls and I played three games of Jenga, enough for each of us to lose one. I then left them to convert the game pieces into a building block set (they inherited the family construction gene) and took a nap.

That evening Dad and I drove into town to get pizza for everyone. Dad said he had been looking forward to this—he had not had pizza since a previous occasion last year when everybody had been home. After supper we returned to the school for more riding. Dad and I got the bikes unloaded before Mom arrived with the girls, so we played follow the leader (with Dad leading) all over the deserted campus. I especially liked riding down the long breezeway between the two main building complexes. I finally got to ride the Express for a bit. It’s a very fun little bike. If only we’d had one of those when I was a kid!

Then the girls arrived, and we rode as before. Eventually the oldest niece got to try her hand at riding one of the street-legal bikes. Even the youngest eventually tired of her minibike and rode for a while with me. When it got toward dark, Dad had me round everybody up so that we could load up and go home.

That evening, just before bedtime, I took the Fathers’ Day card I had bought a few days earlier and signed it. I propped it up on the kitchen table. Dad would be sure to see it there when he left first thing in the morning to go to his office at church.

The congregation was glad as always to see us visitors. Dad preached a heartfelt Fathers’ Day sermon. Back home after church we had a traditional Sunday meal of roast beef and roast potatoes. The heaping batch of potatoes disappeared completely, prompting me to comment that it was just as well we didn’t have three boys—they’d have eaten Mom and Dad out of house and home.

Dad got more Fathers’ Day cards from the girls. To my amazement, since I’m very obviously not a father, I got a card from them as well. They realized (or at least the older ones did) that, being divorced and childless, Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day are not the best of holidays for me. And they wanted to do something for me.

When evening arrived it was time for everybody to get ready to go back to church. And it was time for me to load up and prepare to ride home, so I could arrive before dark. I said my goodbyes to everybody. I wished Dad a happy Fathers’ Day. He said he had had a happy one.

The ride back home proved uneventful. I thought to stop at a roadside store in one town to purchase a new belt that I had been needing. I couldn’t find one that fit me in the adult clothing section and had to go with one meant for a younger wearer—reminding me once again that I’m a good deal more diminutive than a normal biker.

Back at my house I unloaded, checked on the dog outside, and called home to let them know I had arrived safely. In the background I heard the girls having their usual good time. As I hung up the phone I suddenly wished I was back there, not alone where I was.

Then I remembered how I had been able to grow up with a wonderful father, and mother, and a brother and sister-in-law and three girls who love me. And I have more family as well, and the family of God beyond that. No, I don’t have children, and company at night, and a real household of my own where I can cook and entertain for people. But I’ve been blessed far more than most people in life. And I found that I was happy.

That was a wonderful reminiscence; thanks for sharing it.

(And I'm glad to hear the conclusions you came to as well. )

Thanks, Kevin.

BTW, I hear Dad has continued to take the girls out riding in the evenings. He's been accused of trying to raise his own little motorcycle gang!