Father’s Day: prose and poetry
Tim Russert died two days ago, and he’s been mourned and eulogized by many since then. Quite a few of the tributes have made glowing mention of two books he’d written, both on the theme of fatherhood.
The first, Big Russ and Me, is a memoir about his down-to-earth, loving but undemonstrative, Greatest Generation father. The second is Wisdom of Our Fathers, a collection of letters about fathers that readers sent Russert in response to the first book.
I’ve read neither. But since so many of the heartfelt reminiscences about Russert—who seems to have been one of the rare genuinely warm, decent, and fairminded individuals ever to have risen to the top of the heap in the TV news business—recommended these two books, they sound as though they’d be an excellent thing to read or give as a gift on Father’s Day.
Father’s Day. A sort of poor stepchild to Mother’s Day, although fathers themselves are hardly that. They are central to a family.
Just ask the people who never had one, or who had a difficult relationship with theirs. Or ask the people who were nurtured in the strength of a father’s love and guidance. And although we can’t ask Tim Russert any more, he left his books as a testament to how very vital the father-child bond can be.
Of course, the complex world being what it is, and people and families being what they are, it’s the rare father-child relationship that’s entirely conflict-free. But for the vast majority, love is almost always present, even though at times it can be hard to express or to perceive. It can take a child a long time to see it or feel it; but that’s part of what growing up is all about. And “growing up” can go on even in adulthood.
Father’s Day—or Mother’s Day, for that matter—can wash over us in a wave of treacly sentimentality. But the truth of the matter is often stranger, deeper, and more touching. Sometimes the words of love catch in the throat before they’re spoken. But they can still be sensed. Sometimes a loving father is lost through distance or misunderstanding, and then regained.
There’s an extraordinary poem by Robert Hayden that depicts one of these uneasy father-child connections—the shrouded feelings, both paternal and filial, that can come to be seen in the fullness of time as the love that was always, always there. I offer it on this Father’s Day to all of you.
THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house.
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Thank you, Neo.
Yes, I guess loves truest nature shines when under appreciated and under recognized. Thanks.
After seeing all the coverage about the death of Tim Russert and how much he idolized his father, my mother made the observation that Russert never spoke about his mother – at least in the clips that were shown since his death.
Our relationships with our parents are seldom “even.” One will always be warmer than the other. It’s just the nature of human beings for this to happen. The real mark of a person grown wise is to know this and to understand why it happens – and choose to rise above it and appreciate the less-warm parental relationship for what it was. But, this is hard to do until one has undergone whatever introspection and healing that frees one for that level of wisdom. So, instead of only focusing on how a relationship fails or is not up to our expectations, we maturely go forth to rise above our own pains and pettiness.
When one is beyond holding grudges, that person is truly free to love.
Thanks for this very special Sunday post, neo.
And thanks to FredHjr whose words were so extraordinarily true. There was such a contrast in my home growing up, between our mother and father.
When I reached adulthood, I still didn’t understand how parents can treat their children so differently. It took a very long time to learn to just accept that it was just the way they were. No matter what our expectations were, no matter our emotional needs, it was just the way they were. (Therapy was key to this understanding I must admit).
When my mother died, there was a very complicated and guilty feeling of sadness coupled with relief. I later realized it was because I would never ever get the approbation and love I sought so desperately, and relief that I didn’t have to work to that end. Yet there was the love I always had for her because she was my mother — the only one I knew, and no matter what, I would still miss her.
My father on the other hand was tough, no nonsense, and I don’t think he really knew what to do with small children. But always we knew there was deep love, though unexpressed. He was raised to believe that men were the breadwinners, and that was there primary job. He wasn’t around a lot, because he was always working.
Once I became an adult, we had a completely different relationship. We learned to talk to one another — sometimes with me coaching him to learn that it was OK to express feelings, and so important — and effective — to be communicative. And he, much to my surprise, really took that to heart, and worked on those changes. We’ve become best friends since then, and the closeness has been so rewarding as well as an essential part of both our lives. After my mother died, I think this enabled him to find a different kind of love, and his buoyant joy and happiness is a wonder to see, even as he approaches 86. He’s a special man. He always was. But growing up gives us the ability to view life and people from new perspectives, and it is embracing that, and building on it that allows it to give back to us.
Each year, when Father’s Day arrives, I have tried to think of new words to tell him how special he is to me, and how I treasure our relationship. Eventually, I ran out of new and creative phrases. It was then that I settled for a very simple “I love you so much” and he receives those words with all the passion and respect, and caring they are meant to convey. Similarly, no gift — no matter how creative, thoughtful, or extravagant says more than simple words said from the heart; words and thoughtfulness, expressed not just on Father’s Day, but communicated throughout the year.
Typical of eulogies, Tim Russert’s was totally glowing. He seems to have been a genuinely nice enthusiastic guy but the memories of good things will seem more reliable when people are willing to give a well rounded picture.
On his show today, the panel did have the temerity to note, laughingly, that he was extremely thin-skinned, located all criticisms of him and took revenge when he could. But that was it.
There are a lot of crappy dads out there and the one in the poem appears to be someone you can only remember lovingly rather than love because then you are not facing his nasty temper.
Poole,
Russert had three sisters. Perhaps it is not that he neglected his mother but that he felt a special need as the only son to honor the the father-son relationship. He said in the Neil Cavuto interview at posted at Fox that he thought he wanted to pass his father’s lessons to his son.
A very special post, Neo. And some wonderfully perceptive comments.
Those of us who had a distant relationship with our fathers can only admire and be in awe of the close, loving relationship that Russert enjoyed with his dad. Russert, by all accounts, worked very hard to be a good father himself. Lord knows we need as many good fathers as we can get these days. He stands out as a good example and will undoubtedly be sorely missed by his son.
I think Tim Russert was a very lucky man. The awkwardness and sometimes insensitive episodes which mark how my Dad and I treated each other at times are probably more the norm than the exception. And yet I love Dad very much and both of us express it in very subtle ways with deeds, not words. And that is enough for me. I’m 53 and he’s 73. He was a very young man when I was born, and he had to grow into the role. The good thing is that I think things got better with time, and I am grateful for that. And it wasn’t easy for him, with six kids to support. And so I find in him many fine qualities worthy of mentioning, but so personal and numerous that I don’t wish to bloviate here.
It must be very difficult for Tim’s father, son, wife, and siblings this Father’s Day. What an awful time to be suddenly wrenched away from this world and from them. By all accounts he was a good and decent man – far better than most in the talking head world. And I wouldn’t hold it against him because he was a liberal. I can understand a good deal of where he was coming from. And so my prayers are with his family.
Children can’t be happy with nothing to ignore.
That’s what parents were created for.
(Ogden Nash)