Thoughts on Father's Day

Father's Day has come and gone again. Since my own dad's passing in 2012, I always find a bittersweet element to this nationwide celebration. Of course I honor my husband, the father of my children, and do my best to help him feel appreciated. Now that all of my children are parents, I honor the fathers of my grandchildren as well. Somehow, it isn't the same without a dad of my own.

So I spend part of each Father's Day remembering my dad. Born in 1922, Dad grew up in a small farming community nestled in a valley of the Gila Mountains. Born on the Arizona side of that valley, he grew up on the New Mexico side, near Silver City. Throughout his life, he loved driving through well-tended fields of productive farmland. He was even more thrilled by the pastoral scenes. Whenever I drive past fields of green grass where Black Angus cattle graze peacefully, I think of my dad, knowing how much he would love that sight.

He gardened throughout his life, also tending fruit trees, berry vines, grapes, and other crops. He and Mom chose homes with a little land around them, so he always had animals to tend. My sibs and I grew up on healthful, organically grown milk, meat, eggs, and produce whose provenance we all knew well, since we had helped to grow it (sometimes, when Dad let us or insisted).

Dad loved horses. As a pre-teen girl with horse-crazy friends, so did I. When I was a young teen, he bought a sweet old mare who gave my sister and me some interesting rides. Then Dad traded Belle in on a young, "proud-cut" gelding who had a little too much spirit for my taste. I rode Star occasionally and my sister liked Star better, but Dad loved him. As a young man, he had ridden on cattle drives. In his early adult life, he had worked for the U.S. Forest Service, often riding in to the fire lines, leading a pack mule that carried additional supplies. A spirited horse was exactly his style.

He was a teacher who had never really wanted to teach, whose students all adored him. He made up fantastic stories that he set in the history of the nation or the world, making the history he taught personal enough that his students could grasp and appreciate it.

Because of his birth in 1922, Dad was the right age to go to war with the Greatest Generation. He joined the Navy and became a sailor who was violently ill whenever at sea. He did better when assigned as a radioman and tail gunner for a small airplane in a smaller air field on an even smaller island in the Pacific. He seldom spoke of his war experience, usually only to say he had never been in combat. When he was in his 70s, he finally began to talk of the side of the war he had seen, including plenty of death and sorrow.

He adored babies. Whenever the family gathered, Dad gravitated toward the little people. Almost every child born in our extended family up to the date of his death has been held, rocked, and sung to sleep by my father. When my own grandchildren cry now, especially that inconsolable cry all babies sometimes manage, I wish for my father to soothe them. I wonder, sometimes, if he might be there.

On this most recent Father's Day, I cooked a special meal for my husband, sent e-cards to all the other fathers in the family, and let them all know I love them and appreciate the fine work they are doing in raising the next generation. But in my private moments, I thought of my dad. I probably always will.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 18 novels currently available as e-books. PARIS IN THE SPRINGTIME and SUNNY'S SUMMER, the first two books in the "Seasons of Destiny" series, are also available in paperback. Book Two chronicles the aftermath of the deadly Camp Fire. She lives in northern California with Roger, her husband of 49 years. She loves hearing from readers. Find her at www.susanaylworth.com, @SusanAylworth, on Pinterest and Instagram, and at www.facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author.