Memories on Father's Day

by Fran McNabb

With Father’s Day next weekend, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass without saying something about our dads.

I want to share a few memories I have of some special men in my life starting with my father. My

dad was from the generation where men left the housework and raising the children to the mother. He was a fisherman, a hard worker who shrimped at night and slept during the day, so my brother and I didn’t see him as much as we would’ve liked. On summer Sundays, however, he’d make sure the boat was clean and he would take the family and our friends out to the islands. Those days made up for all the tip-toeing around the house while he slept. I have wonderful memories of Dad and Mom sitting on his boat overseeing everything and getting the food ready (homemade fried chicken and potato salad) as the children swam and played.

I realized that all men did not leave the childrearing up to the mother alone. I spent many days with one of my aunts and uncle. It was here at their home that I realized men actually helped take care of the little ones. When he was home, my Uncle Jimmy helped with the everyday tasks of raising their children. I’m sure throughout the ages men have done that, but it never occurred to me until I watched my uncle. He’s no longer with us, but when I think about him today I think about those small moments between him and his children that probably went unnoticed to anyone else.

Today it takes two to raise children. My eldest son took on the responsibilities of helping with his one baby from the moment they brought him home. Both of my sons helped to raise their sons and helped around the house. Does it make men any less of a man to do things like change diapers, toss a ball to his son, or mop a floor or iron a shirt? Absolutely not. I think it makes a man more of a man.

And I can’t end this without mentioning my husband. Living with someone for almost forty-seven years and raising two sons together make for some wonderful memories, but it’s the memories of him spending time with our boys that bring me the most joy today. Maybe our sons learned from him because today all my men cook and press their clothes and help around the house. (Yes, I do iron as well. In fact, I love to iron.)

Happy Father’s Day to all the men in your life. If you have a special memory to share, I’d love for you to comment so we can all enjoy it.

FRAN MCNABB lives with her husband on a quiet harbor bayou along the Gulf Coast. She always says that her fictional heroes all have a little bit of her husband in them. Now she can say that since her sons are grown, they too have contributed to the heroic qualities in her novels. Check out her tender romances on her website www.FranMcNabb.com  or contact her at mcnabbf@bellsouth.net. She loves to hear from her readers. 

Stop the World. My Husband has a cold.

Every time the hub gets a sniffle, it's the same thing. He, the only one who ever had whatever it is he has or thinks he has, is never going to fee well again and the world is going to stop turning.



(This would be very bad because we’d lose gravity and all fly up into the air at the same time).

Then the martyr in him comes out:

Him (Hand on head, coughing for effect) - Don't worry about me. I'll just get some soup.
Me - Fine (I know where this is going, but I'll play along)
Him - (Taking one small step toward the stove) By the way where is the soup?
Me- In the pantry.
Him- (Now standing motionless and looking left and right) And where is the pantry?

Does it sound familiar to anyone?

Next he plants his germ infested body in the living room and struggles with the remote, because even if men are taking their last breath, they must be watching TV while doing it. Picture of charm, he is in a white tee-shirt and his PJ bottoms with a box of tissues on his chest and a garbage pail next to his chair so he can dispose of anything he feels will not advance him to a total miracle cure. He is now reclining, motionless, eyes closed. But even as I try to take the remote and change the channel, he says "I was watching that." Okay, I understand now. He has x-ray vision and can see right through his eyelids.

Then comes the “favors”.  Honey, get me a blanket. Done. Honey, can I have a pillow. Done. Honey, can I have some juice. Done. All this while I'm dusting, doing laundry, taking all the phone calls, cleaning up the dinner he asked for the day before and now can't possibly eat because his delicate constitution is in shambles, and trying desperately to write at least 3 pages in the next book in between royal summonses.

After a few hours of noises coming from him that belong in a Stephen King movie trailer, I ask him if he wants to a few more cold tablets to help him feel better. It goes something like this.

Me - Honey, maybe it's time to take a few more cold pills.
Him - I didn't take anything yet.
Me - but you came home from work 6 hours ago.
Him - I was afraid it would put me to sleep.

PUT HIM TO SLEEP!!!! Wasn't that what we're supposed to do when we get sick? Hydrate, rest and sleep??

Deep breath. A cold is only going to last three days.

I'll be in Iceland until he gets cured.

Kathye Quick is a wife, mom, writer, government worker and now, apparently a home health care worker, who is desperately trying to meet a deadline for her second book in the Bachelors Three series for the Wild Rose Press.

And yes, she is really in Iceland - right now - probably sitting in a geothermal pool watching the snow fall around her, and hopefully, without her husband's cold.