Another Father’s Day in the book.
I tried to rewind the tape back through all the Father’s Days I spent with my Oldman. We never made a big production of it. Most years, we’d grab a meal at a small family joint. German or Bohemian mostly. Every so often, we’d mix it up, he had a soft spot for Mexican food, especially La Majada in Oak Park. He always pronounced it with a hard J. English style. LamaJada....
The last one we shared was simple and perfect. A bowl of gumbo at Shanahan’s, then I mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes while he kept an eye from the porch. When I put the mower away, he handed me an Old Style he’d stashed in a bucket of ice. We sat down. Gershwin came on, Rhapsody in Blue. The Oldman had the remote tucked in his pocket and queued it up just right as I took a swig of my beer. Timing was always his strong suit.
This year, I kept it low-key. George was off with JoJo, and the redheads were clustered out west of Mannheim.
And I’ll admit that it hit me: I might have spent Father’s Day this year with the same crew I’ll be with on my last one, somewhere deep in the 2050s, Han Solo and Gilbert O’Sullivan.
Now, it’s time to focus forward. The longest day of the year is just ahead. The official start of summer. Soon, the heat will start to brown the edges of the grass, fade the petals of the annuals, and age the leaves we just watched bud.
Let’s keep astonishment in our planner as we slide into July.
Let’s keep showing up... even when it’s hot, even when it’s quiet.
