Finding Father's Day

An eight year journey

I missed the last fathers’s day that meant anything to me. It was 2018 and I was in Africa. Two weeks later Dad was gone. Since then I’ve only looked at Father’s Day as a bad memory, even though I’ve been a father for a long time.

But Father’s Day was never about me, it was always about my father. Though I never needed a special day to remember or recognize all that my father had meant to me, done for me, and had been to me—I told him often—but it was the day he knew we celebrated his existence. Sure, my kids have always done their duty and wished me a “happy” day, but for me, it was never about me. And for the last eight years their hugs and blessings have mostly served as a reminded that I no longer had someone to share that day/wish with.

Bat and Montana prepping to paint the high parts.

This year I decided to make Father’s Day different for me and for my dad, and I began planning a little more than a month ago. The camp that’s been in our family longer than I have, needed painting. In fact, it’s needed paint since back before dad left us. Up until then he had been the guiding force with regard to camp maintenance and improvements. My plan was for my wife and my son Bat and oldest daughter Montana to go to the camp on Father’s Day weekend and give it a new coat of paint, while my youngest daughter stayed at home to take care of everyone’s dogs.

The plan worked to perfection and even the weather cooperated. It didn’t rain, it wasn’t too hot, and there was a nice breeze. We started early and by dark on Friday we were mostly done. That evening, submerged into what seemed like a whip-poor-will sanctuary, Bat cooked some great steaks and we stayed by the fire with cold beer well into the morning hours.

You gotta admit, Montana was right. The orange porch swing and door make all the difference.

Saturday morning, after Montana decided the porch swing and doors had to be painted blaze orange to add some spice to the drab “shit” brown color I’d chosen, the kids went home and Drema and I painted the porch and ate a spaghetti dinner while we watched deer and turkey feeding on the hillside.

I missed Father’s day eight years ago, but I did not miss it this year.

This morning—Father’s Day—we cleaned up from all the painting work, cleared a few fallen tress from some of the roads on the property, and then we stopped by the marble bench that rests on a low ridge where we spread my mother’s and father’s ashes. Back at the cabin, I pulled out my Scout Rifle and put 40 rounds down range checking the holdovers out to 400 yards. (That rifle and I have not spent enough time together during the last eight years.) It’s been a good weekend—a memorable weekend—well spent.

Five hits at 400. The wind was a little tricky today.

As I’m writing this I’m looking out a window in the cabin my mother’s father and my father built just before I was born. It’s where they both watched me grow up and where I learned many of the lessons father’s teach their son’s. This cabin and the country around it has been the one constant—the anchor—in my life, for all my life. I guess you could say it is the place that made me who I am, and for the last eight years I’ve been the one taking care of it, teaching my children the things father’s are supposed to teach their kids.

Father’s Day can be about you, too.

It’s been a long time since I gave a damn about father’s day, and not spent the day thinking about the Father’s Day I missed eight years ago. But, I’m looking forward to Father’s Day next year. In fact, I’m already making a plan and think Dad would approve.