Father’s Day

Father’s Day is here, and I’d like to make this public statement: The most influential man in my life was my father. Because of him, I’m a writer.

He was a high school English teacher. One of the best and most profound memories I have of my father was listening to him read to me and my three siblings at bedtime when we were young. He read poetry every night and did it beautifully. I grew up listening to the bombastic “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the mournful “Annabel Lee,” the folksy “Raggedy Man,” and the chilling “Little Orphant Annie,” which warns that the Gobble-uns’ll git you ef you don’t watch out!

My father taught me that words have power, that words, if used correctly, can move people in mysterious ways. I grew up respecting language, and whenever I sit down and bend to my work, I try to keep my father’s influence in every word choice I make.

My mother battled mental illness and was often gone as I grew up, either off in her ideations or in an institution. It was my father who, in her absences, kept our family together. From him I learned that there is no house chore that a man can’t do, and that cooking can be a fun exercise in taking creative liberties with recipes. He taught me how to ride a bicycle, play tennis, and although he was deathly afraid of water, made sure that I could swim like a fish.

He passed away ten years ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t give a small prayer of thanks for all the ways in which he gifted me.

In one of the small towns in which he taught, he hosted a weekly radio program dedicated to poetry. He ended every program with lines from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “The Day Is Done.” Whenever I whisper to myself these comforting lines, my father comes back to me in a beautiful way.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like Arabs,
And as silently, steal away.

Rest well, Dad. And happy Father’s Day.