FIRST FATHER'S DAY
My wife asked me how I wanted to mark my first Father's Day. I normally love going out - brunch is a favorite - but I'm not quite ready to take Clara out into the world, so I opted for a simple, homebound request. A pizza and a James Bond movie. That seemed appropriately dad-like. The pizza came from Lamonica's, which I recently stumbled into and found surprisingly good. The Bond, this time, was Thunderball. I knew it had to be a Connery film, preferably one I hadn't watched in a while. (My first choice was You Only Live Twice, but my copy of that DVD is defective. A replacement has been ordered.)
So it's been a day of pizza, Bond, and especially catching up on lost sleep. But there's an undeniably bittersweet air to the day, coming almost exactly three months to the day since my father died. As we had our breakfast this morning, I remembered a Father's Day moment from about fifteen years ago.
I was spending Father's Day weekend in Big Sur with my best friend at a favorite inn of ours. We were sitting in the dining room, enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast, when a lady entered and addressed the only other people present, a young couple at the next table. "Are those your children out front?" she asked. The couple nodded. "They're lovely. You must be very proud. Happy Father's Day." At the sound of those last words, I leapt out of my chair as though it had just kicked me, and raced from the room. I found the pay phone in the lobby (these were pre-cell days, and anyway, I think there's still no reception in Big Sur), and called my father (collect, I fear) to wish him Happy Father's Day. I returned sheepishly to breakfast, where the couple grinned at me. "Did you reach your Dad?" they asked. I did, and I thanked them for reminding me.
My greatest sorrow at the loss of my father is that he didn't get to meet his granddaughter. This saddened him, too, and he told me he was sorry he would not see her. I am not at all inclined to mystical thinking, but my mother informs me that my father had an unconscious habit of placing his thumb between his index and middle finger - apparently, an obscene gesture in Russia. Whatever its meaning, Clara appears to do the same thing. (Though I'll advise her to cool it if we ever visit Moscow.)
Finally, I share the absolutely perfect present Mrs. TEV gave me today. If only I had one of these growing up ... Literary hijinks resume tomorrow.
