For Dad, With Extra Garlic and Soul

Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Grandparents’ Day….once when I was little, I asked my mom why there isn’t a “Kids’ Day.” You can guess her answer: “Around this house, every day is Kids’ Day.”

True that, Mom. Still is.

But that didn’t stop my father from designating several Kids’ Days each year -- we called them “Spoil Days.” On Spoil Day, Dad took me to lunch, maybe to a movie. Then, we drove to Toys R Us, where he let me pick out any reasonably-priced toy I wanted. I’m still experiencing buyer’s remorse on a Pound Puppy talking phone. Automated dog voices….what was I thinking?

It’s a little embarrassing to tell you about Spoil Day. Clearly, I was spoiled -- not the sort of child who would get the keys to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I can only promise that I didn’t whine and shriek like Veruca Salt (much).

And also, I didn’t realize I was special. I thought all dads treated their children to bimonthly Spoil Days. Just as I thought every father told his wife and daughter “I love you” every day. And every dad got a kick out of drumming the steering wheel in tune with James Brown’s “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.”

Mom never interfered with Spoil Day. I sometimes wondered why we didn’t make it a family event. Now, of course, I see that Spoil Day was meant as a sort of Father’s-Daughter’s Day. As I got older -- more enchanted with Claire’s Accessories than with Toys R Us -- I spent most of my time with Mom. She helped me pick out an 8th grade formal dress, heard stories about my first crush, scoped college campuses with me. We met up in New Orleans last month. Travel is hard on Dad, and I have a knack for choosing far-off places to live.

I guess my father always knew our Spoil Days were limited. On those afternoon car trips, we would play our own Abbott and Costello routine: I’d ask, “Dad, what will you do when I turn eight?” Dad would gasp, put a hand on his chest. “Eight! I can’t imagine you getting so old! I just won’t know what to do.” I’d giggle for awhile. “So….what about when I turn……ten?”

And what about….25?

I think Walt Whitman has a poem about being “all the ages we once were,” or something like that. Like my dad, I’m more of an Ogden Nash person than a Whitman person. (“When called by a panther….don’t anther.”) I like the Whitman poem, though -- the gist being, I’m not only 24, but also 23, 22, 21...10...8.…5.

I’m seven years old, belting a Delbert McClinton chorus with Dad en route to Kebab Cuisine, our favorite lunch spot.

I’m twelve, joining my dad on his jogging route around Campus School.

I’m fifteen, as we mutually grit our teeth through the abortive parking-lot driving lessons.

And all those college years….summers full of frying up garlic for black bean enchiladas, cheering Mudcat Brewer in MTSU baseball games, memorizing Seinfeld one-liners (“not that there’s anything wrong with that“).

In the Whitman sense, Father’s Day isn’t just this 24-hour stretch -- it’s all the days leading up to today. All of the birthdays, Spoil Days, lazy Sundays. It’s a lot for a “thank you,” and too much to capture on a blog. Maybe it’s best appreciated with a James Brown whoop or kitchen-pan drumming. Something felt, not said.

But “saying” is all I have today, Dad. So, I’ll say it one more time: thanks.