Roger L. Durham

rl.durham@insightbb.com

6/3/2010

The Perfect Father’s Day

Father’s Day has not been the same since my Dad died. As obvious as that sounds, it surprises me every

year when the third Sunday in June rolls around. My Dad never expected much out of Father’s Day. In

fact, it seemed a lot like every other Sunday for him. When I was a child, we would go to church, then to

a swim meet, then home for burgers on the grill. My brothers and sister and I would give Dad our cards

and gifts, then Dad would end up in front of the tv, falling asleep while watching the end of the U.S.

Open golf tournament. As we got older, the routine shifted, modestly. We were done with swim meets,

so we would spend the early afternoon at the track – Churchill Downs – betting on the horses. It was one

of my Dad’s simple pleasures. The rest of the day followed the pattern of the years – burgers, gifts and

the U.S. Open. You could script it ahead of time and not miss the story line by much. Every year was

pretty much the same. He liked routine, my Dad. And we liked that he liked routine. It made Father’s

Day pretty straightforward and easy to plan.

Gifts were easy, too. Books and golf balls. That’s all he ever wanted. We knew he would appreciate

them. And use them. He was a simple man, my Dad. And we liked it that way. He was easy to please,

and hard to disappoint.

Dad died in the February of my 42nd year. It was eight years ago. As a father of two sons and a step-

father of another, that was the first year that Father’s Day was all about me. I was the focus of the day.

No longer could I defer to my father. It was my day, and I wasn’t fully prepared for that. My sons were

great. They spent the day with me, which was no small sacrifice. They were living back and forth

between their mother’s house and mine. They had the frenetic social lives of typical teenage boys. They

had plenty they could be doing. But they spent the afternoon with me. And I loved every minute of it.

Since their mom and I divorced, I only got to spend half-time with them during their growing-up years,

so I cherished every moment I got.

That Father’s Day, as different as it was, felt very familiar. We decided to go to Churchill Downs. Before

each race we studied the racing form like we knew what we were doing. We went to the paddock to

watch the horses being saddled. We compared notes, then placed our bets and hurried back to our box

before the horses reached the starting gate. When the gates opened and horses burst out in an

explosion of hooves and dirt and color and sweat, we cheered like we had lost our minds. As if our

cajoling could influence the finish. We high fived each other on those races where we had the winners,

and recounted the bets we should have made – almost made – when our horses finished outside of the

money. It was a great day with my boys. From the track, we went home to grill burgers, open gifts, and

then watch the final holes of the U.S. Open, as I had so many times with my father. But I didn’t fall

asleep.

It was pretty much the perfect Father’s Day. Until they had to leave. Friends were calling. Plans were

unfolding. They had to go. I thanked them for the day, and hugged them, and told them how much I

loved being their father. As they pulled out of the driveway, I sat down and cried my eyes dry – grieving

the passage of time – wondering how life could have changed so dramatically around me – wishing my

boys could find full-time home with me – missing my father – wanting to give him a hug and tell him I

love him. Had I done that on the previous Father’s Day? I couldn’t be sure.

Now my boys are young men. One lives in town. One does not. Both are working. My step son is still in

school. Two are single. The oldest is getting married at the end of the month. Before long, they will all join

me in the fraternity of fatherhood. At least, I hope that for them, when the time is right. I hope they get to

cradle a young life in their arms and dream big dreams for him or her. I want them to know what it is like

to look into the eyes of a child and see those big dreams smiling back at them. I want them to feel the tug

of the invisible cord of DNA, or the even more powerful bond of emotion that has nothing to do with

biology, that nourish the child just as surely as the umbilical cord had nourished it in the womb. I want

them to know what it is like to love so uncontrollably and unconditionally. It is a marvelous gift – being a

Dad. I want that marvel for them.

Father’s Day, 2010. One son I will see. The other I won’t. My step son will be with his Dad. The son I will

see will have to work that evening. It’s a good revenue day in the restaurant business. We’ll probably go

to the track, early – the two of us. But then he will have to get to work. So I will grill a burger and sit

down to watch the final round of the U.S. Open. And I will remember my Dad. And weep a tear of loss

and gratitude. And more than likely, I will slip into a comfortable late afternoon nap.