Both Elizabeth Warren and Al Franken’s daughter sent sweet emails of reminiscence. Liz’s was more touching and Thomasin’s was cuter, but I enjoyed both.
Elizabeth:
From the time I was in second grade, I wanted to be a teacher. But our family was a paycheck-to-paycheck family. By the time I was a senior in high school, we didn’t have the money for a college application, much less the money to send me off to school. I was sixteen, angry and miserable.
After one especially bitter battle with my mother, I threw some clothes in a bag and ran out of the house. Hours later, Daddy found me on a bench at the bus station downtown. He sat down beside me, and asked if I remembered the time after his heart attack.
I remembered. I’d been 12 years old, and I’d seen how fast a family could be turned upside down.
Daddy said it was the worst time in his life. Worse than when the doctors thought the lumps on his neck were cancer. Worse than when his best friend died. Worse than when he was in a terrible car crash and smashed through the windshield and tore his shoulder open.
“Your mother was at home when they took the station wagon,” he said in a low voice. “And then they said they were going to take the house. She cried every night.”
He paused for a long time. “I just couldn’t face it.”
Sitting there on the bench in the bus station, he told me that he had failed and that the shame had nearly killed him. He wanted to die.
What happened? I asked.
Daddy sat silently for a long time, caught somewhere in his memories of those awful days. He still didn’t look at me. Finally, he took my hand in both of his and held it tightly.
It got better, he said. Your mother found work. We made some payments. After a while, I went back to work. We had less money, but it was enough to get by. We got caught up on the mortgage. You seemed to do okay.
Finally he turned and looked at me. “Life gets better, punkin.”
And he was right. Daddy and I headed home. It was a winding path, but I eventually made it through college and started teaching school. And once one door opened, so did another and another. Life got better.
I’ve carried that story in my pocket for decades. It was how I made it through the painful parts. Divorce. Disappointments. Deaths. When things get tough, I still hear my daddy’s voice, telling me to hang on. It’s a part of him that will always be with me.
Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies who are trying their hardest. Happy Father’s Day to every daddy who sets the example every day of what it means to care for the people you love. Happy Father’s Day to every daddy who tells a child, “Life gets better, punkin.”
Thomasin:
When I was a kid, and it was time for me and my brother Joe to go to bed, my dad would tell us stories about a character named Stupid Daddy.
Stupid Daddy meant well, but he was…well, stupid. He did the dumbest stuff in the world, and every time we heard about Stupid Daddy, Joe and I would laugh until we were too tired to laugh anymore.
I’m a mom now, and my dad is a grandfather.
Dad likes to joke that his grandkids call him “Senator.” But to me and Joe, he’ll always be Stupid Daddy…well, Senator Stupid Daddy, I guess.
For much of my life growing up, my father was absent. I remember him taking us (my brother and me, and our friends) camping and fishing, making ice rinks in the yard during winter, and teaching me how to rid a bicycle when I was 5 years old. But my father left us when I was 10 years old and my mother was thrust into the role of both mother and father. When I was a young adult, I started giving my mother a Fathers’ Day card to thank her for filling that dual role. If she were still alive today, I would be doing the same thing.
So Happy Fathers’ Day to all the men who, for their own children or others who need a man’s perspective, fill that fathering role. And Happy Fathers’ Day to all the women who, like my mother, find themselves being both mother and father.
I am not a parent, unless you count my 3 cats as kids, so I can only ponder the enormity of being a parent. Thanks all.
Both Elizabeth Warren and Al Franken’s daughter sent sweet emails of reminiscence. Liz’s was more touching and Thomasin’s was cuter, but I enjoyed both.
Elizabeth:
From the time I was in second grade, I wanted to be a teacher. But our family was a paycheck-to-paycheck family. By the time I was a senior in high school, we didn’t have the money for a college application, much less the money to send me off to school. I was sixteen, angry and miserable.
After one especially bitter battle with my mother, I threw some clothes in a bag and ran out of the house. Hours later, Daddy found me on a bench at the bus station downtown. He sat down beside me, and asked if I remembered the time after his heart attack.
I remembered. I’d been 12 years old, and I’d seen how fast a family could be turned upside down.
Daddy said it was the worst time in his life. Worse than when the doctors thought the lumps on his neck were cancer. Worse than when his best friend died. Worse than when he was in a terrible car crash and smashed through the windshield and tore his shoulder open.
“Your mother was at home when they took the station wagon,” he said in a low voice. “And then they said they were going to take the house. She cried every night.”
He paused for a long time. “I just couldn’t face it.”
Sitting there on the bench in the bus station, he told me that he had failed and that the shame had nearly killed him. He wanted to die.
What happened? I asked.
Daddy sat silently for a long time, caught somewhere in his memories of those awful days. He still didn’t look at me. Finally, he took my hand in both of his and held it tightly.
It got better, he said. Your mother found work. We made some payments. After a while, I went back to work. We had less money, but it was enough to get by. We got caught up on the mortgage. You seemed to do okay.
Finally he turned and looked at me. “Life gets better, punkin.”
And he was right. Daddy and I headed home. It was a winding path, but I eventually made it through college and started teaching school. And once one door opened, so did another and another. Life got better.
I’ve carried that story in my pocket for decades. It was how I made it through the painful parts. Divorce. Disappointments. Deaths. When things get tough, I still hear my daddy’s voice, telling me to hang on. It’s a part of him that will always be with me.
Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies who are trying their hardest. Happy Father’s Day to every daddy who sets the example every day of what it means to care for the people you love. Happy Father’s Day to every daddy who tells a child, “Life gets better, punkin.”
Thomasin:
When I was a kid, and it was time for me and my brother Joe to go to bed, my dad would tell us stories about a character named Stupid Daddy.
Stupid Daddy meant well, but he was…well, stupid. He did the dumbest stuff in the world, and every time we heard about Stupid Daddy, Joe and I would laugh until we were too tired to laugh anymore.
I’m a mom now, and my dad is a grandfather.
Dad likes to joke that his grandkids call him “Senator.” But to me and Joe, he’ll always be Stupid Daddy…well, Senator Stupid Daddy, I guess.
Happy Father’s Day to all the men who have fulfilled, or are fulfilling that important role in children’s lives.
Happy Father’s day to all, relax and enjoy your day!
For much of my life growing up, my father was absent. I remember him taking us (my brother and me, and our friends) camping and fishing, making ice rinks in the yard during winter, and teaching me how to rid a bicycle when I was 5 years old. But my father left us when I was 10 years old and my mother was thrust into the role of both mother and father. When I was a young adult, I started giving my mother a Fathers’ Day card to thank her for filling that dual role. If she were still alive today, I would be doing the same thing.
So Happy Fathers’ Day to all the men who, for their own children or others who need a man’s perspective, fill that fathering role. And Happy Fathers’ Day to all the women who, like my mother, find themselves being both mother and father.
I am not a parent, unless you count my 3 cats as kids, so I can only ponder the enormity of being a parent. Thanks all.
Compare the Father’s Day Tweets from #44 v #45:
One is about family and one is about his narcissistic self.
Sad … very sad.
[Click on the timestamp (10:47 AM …) to view the Tweet itself]
#44 has class.
#45 has no class.
What Jim said.
Thanks all! Busy. tired hugs!