Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

June 21, 2006

Fathers Day Stories 

~**~**~

ValueSpeak

A Weekly Column

By Joseph Smith

valuespeak@msn.com

FATHERHOOD, PLEETHORICALLY SPEAKING

            There is playful discussion in the extended Walker family these days on the subject of fatherhood.

            This is not a metaphysical discussion.  We are not pondering the various roles, relationships and responsibilities of fathers.  Nor are we considering the theological implications of fatherhood as a way of understanding God and His divine interactions with His children.

            No, this discussion is purely physical, and not especially godly.  It’s about, for lack of a better word, manhood.

            And all of the folly that word implies.

            The conversation started when Cousin Daniel started boasting in the family newsletter about how “manly” he must be because his sweet (and extraordinarily patient) wife Stephanie is expecting their fourth child – and fourth son.  Said Daniel: “Some of us are cursed with masculinity to the point that we are incapable of producing female offspring.”

            This was unsettling to Cousin Jeff, who, with the considerable help of his wife, Karen, has sired five sons.  “Before the younger members of the family pound their own chests with such verbiage I would ask that they remember those who truly merit such a claim,” wrote Jeff, who went on to humbly cite himself as an example of the truly worthy, along with brother Bob, cousin Ron and Uncle Sandy, all of whom are fathers to twin sons.

            “To produce two sons at once,” Bob has said, often, “surely this is the ultimate manifestation of manhood, pleethorically speaking” (don’t bother looking up the word “pleethorically.”  You won’t find it in your dictionary.  It’s a word Bob has coined to mean . . . well, just about anything he wants it to mean.  And in this case it has something to do with manhood and the reproduction thereof – or something like that).

            None of which was intended to infer that having sons is somehow better than having daughters.  Just that it is somehow more . . . you know . . . manly.

            The very idea of which my son, Joe, found to be positively Neanderthal.

            “Men are, by their very nature, simple creatures – physically, mentally, emotionally,” Joe said.  “For a man to participate in the creation of another man is little more than going to the genetic copy machine.  You’re re-making yourself.  Big deal.  It’s like tracing a copy of the Mona Lisa and calling it art.  How much more amazing is it if a male participates in the creation of something completely different than himself, and infinitely more complex: a female.”

            Uh, you should probably be aware that Joe’s wife, Jen, is due to give birth to their third child – and third daughter – at any moment.

            For myself, I happen to think there is much to be said for those who have the genetic dexterity to create both male AND female offspring.  I mentioned this to my wife, Anita, who suggested that I could take full credit for the creation of our five children – three girls and two boys, thank you very much – as soon as I could remind her of exactly where in my body I had carried the babies during my respective pregnancies.

            And where they had . . . you know . . . come out.

            Of course, all of this angst over the placement of a single, simple “y” chromosome has little to do with manhood one way or the other.  Nor does it have anything to do with fatherhood, when it comes right down to it.  For fatherhood isn’t about biology or chemistry or physiology or even genetics.  Fatherhood is about love, pure and simple.  Loving enough to teach.  Loving enough to play.  Loving enough to care.  Loving enough to just be there.

            Pleethorically speaking, or otherwise.

~**~**~

Daddy Sang the Love Songs

Joan Clifton Costner

When I was a baby, plagued by colic, for some reason they discovered there was

comfort for me in my Daddy’s young hairy chest, and he would lie down on the bed, with me there, on his chest, place his foot against the footboard, and sway the bed to comfort me. He told me many times he fell asleep and would wake up still rocking the bed by his foot on the footboard.

Since I was supposed to be a boy, the best I could manage was to be a "tom" boy.

So I tracked along anywhere he would let me go - fishing, hunting, working on the

car, mowing the lawn. I loved it all, and while we were on the way, in the car, we

sang a lot. There were a lot of good songs in the 30s and 40s and we did them all.

I never even thought about the fact that we were singing love songs. They were

just some that we liked.

In my baby days, Daddy and Mother would take me and a stick of dentine chewing

gum to the movies. Ten cents! I was quiet and good when I could taste that

dentine chewing gum every little bit. Whatever the theme song was, by the time

we got home, Mother would touch the piano keys and play the song while Daddy

sang it. All that came early to me and to two sisters later on.

I learned to bait my own hook, shoot my own gun, and when the day came for

me to purchase a car my Daddy found a pretty good body and a pretty good motor,

and required my help putting the motor in the car! It was an old "streamlined"

Pontiac with leopard interior and Indian red two tone paint. A stick shift. I will admit, most of what I did was hand him the tools, but I learned a little.

But from the infant colic days till I was all grown up, the music went on and as

far as I was concerned, Bing couldn’t hold a candle to my Dad. We sang "Goldmine In The Sky", "Old Buttermilk Sky", "Far Away Places", "Memories",

"The Last Mile Home", "Always", "Sweetheart of Sigma Chi", "My Happiness"

"Near You", "Cruising Down the River", "That Old Gang of Mine", "Five and

Ten Cent Store", "Mexicali Rose", Melancholy Baby", "Shanty In Old Shanty

Town", "I Love You, Truly", "Tea for Two", "Blue Room". "Blue Moon",

"Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree", "White Cliffs of Dover", - it would take

an encyclopedia to hold them all! On one trip in the car when I was in my forties,

Daddy, Mother and I sang a good 3 hours together, never stopping, never repeating a single song. And then there were the hymns - all the standards, plus many more, and we sang them all over and over again.

Daddy said he knew he wanted to marry Mother when he was 15 years old. He lived with his grandparents, and that year he went to California to lay steel. He was small -98 lbs, 5'10", but the work that summer and a growing spurt brought him home at 160 lbs , 5'11". While he was working the he wrote the words to a popular song off in a letter to Mother, "How Deep Is The Ocean".

"How much do I love you?

I’ll tell you no lie....How deep is the Ocean, How high is the sky?

How many times a day do I think of you?

How many roses are sprinkled with dew?

How far would I journey, to be where you are?

How far is a journey, from here to a star?

And if I ever lost you, how much would I cry?

How deep is the ocean?

How high is the sky?"

Daddy wasn’t sexy...he was romantic, and all my parents lives it was that way.

When they were 75, Mother told me he would want her to lay her head on his

arm and he would pat her shoulder and say, "Mama, you’re so pretty!"

In the last month of his life, he was in his chair, dreaming of his yesterdays... reminiscing old times....hating to leave us. This time he was recalling the fishing

trips we had taken together. He said, " I guess I won’t do that again....but...

I can dream, can’t I?"

I looked at him a minute and then sang softly , "I can see...." (He joined me then)

"no matter how near you be.....you’ll never belong to me....but I Can Dream, Can’t

I....Can’t I pretend that I’m locked in the bend of your embrace....for dreams are

just like wine, and I am drunk with mine.....I’m aware, my heart is a sad affair, there’s much dissolution there, but I can dream can’t I? Can’t I .. adore you...

Although we are oceans apart...I can’t make you open your heart....but I Can Dream, Can’t I"? A very romantic song...a little complicated...he sang every word.

It was our last song together.

He left us in Feb. 1995. Eight years ago, and I’d still like to say Happy Father’s Day. Eight years, and I’d like to ask, "Am I doing alright?"

He was so young when I was born - only 18. Not having a family, he married

Mother and made his own home.

One day when he was nearing the end, my husband came to his bed and said,

"Dale, I’ll make a deal with you - if I get to Heaven first, I’ll wait at the gate and

watch for you....if you get there first, will you wait for me too?" Daddy ( a very

conservative man) raised his trembling arm up in the air and raised his chin, to

affirm the deal.

Daddy was a good man. I will always, always, miss him.

Joan Clifton Costner

jody@ptsi.net

COPYRIGHT

http://underhiswings0.tripod.com

Poetry Section

~**~**~

A Good Man

Joan Clifton Costner

When a good man dies a thousand lights go out,

And it’s said a giant library is lost -

Oh, I’ve tried to make comparisons and wise clich?s

To estimate, in part, a good man’s loss;

For I know the way it feels to have your heart bend low-

And I understand how dark the nights can be....

But a good man has a heritage beyond the grave,

And we would be so foolish not to see

That a good man leaves a light his children follow-

No groping through some wilderness or maze-

And howe’er their lives, it shines on in a brilliance

That they can see ’til ending of their days’

And his words come ringing, deep, in vibrant stereo

Within the keen recesses of their minds...

There’s guidance there enough to get to Heaven

Where once again their hearts and arms entwine.

I’m so sorry for your loss here on the earth below-

But I’m proud to say "a good man" went away...

And you’ll see him soon - it won’t be long - just follow

The lights a good man left upon the way...

Joan Clifton Costner

jody@ptsi.net

copyright

http://underhiswings0.tripod.com 

http://underhiswings0.tripod.com
http://www.heavenlypoetry.com

Readers Feedback

June 17 - What Ms Foster wrote about her daddy never being there

for her and not being able to grieve at his passing, I rather

enjoyed her last line. I was glad to see that she too, has

come to realize her daddy didn't leave her because he didn't

love her... but because he didn't know HOW to love her. A big

difference in those lines.  When my daddy died, I couldn't cry

nor have I ever. But I have cried FOR my daddy because he

just wasn't a happy soul. I have forgiven him but like Leeuna,

he didn't live to know that. I will tell you about him someday.

Jene Lind

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