The wedding will be a small, private, family affair. I'm glad this is the kind of ceremony they have chosen for themselves. I feel it's unfortunate that the wedding industry and social one upmanship has created some of the three ring circuses we have all witnessed. The joining of two lives is a cause for celebration, but the festivities should not overshadow the reason for the event. We will respect the privacy of the newlyweds, but I promise to post some Paris photos upon our return. Until then, dear bloggers, be well.

In order for a society to function, there has to be a commonly held trust in the institutions and leaders of that society. This in turn can only come from a set of shared values and beliefs which are promulgated and sustained by the people who make up the society. Legislation and police are not sufficient to enforce strictures people have not internalized and accepted. If we do not teach our children the difference between right and wrong, if we look the other way while harm is being done to another, then we have little hope that things will improve. We desperately need leaders who will embody the values that we as society need for our survival. We cannot afford to throw up our hands, shrug our shoulders, and say " that's just the way things are." I again remember that slogan from the sixties, "If you are not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem." Any of you have any ideas here, feel free to chime in.

Before I start writing this next piece, I want to take a moment to thank all of you who have responded with such kindness and encouragement to my last entry. I’m happy to report that the clouds have lifted from my horizon, and the opportunity to do something for another has again proved to be the best medicine for my temporary melancholy. Knowing that there are so many willing to offer comfort and hope in times of need has also been excellent medicine. Again, my gratitude to you all.

FATHER’S DAY

I knew that Father’s Day was a relatively recent invention, but I hadn’t appreciated just how much until a little research uncovered the following facts: The idea is credited to Sonora Dodd, who on hearing a sermon on Mother’s day in 1909 wanted a special day to honor her father, a Civil War veteran who raised his children while working as a single parent. It wasn’t until 1966 that President Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential proclamation declaring the third Sunday of June as Father’s Day, and not until 1972 that President Richard Nixon signed the law which made this a permanent day of celebration.

Anne Sexton wrote in one of her books, “It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.” I doubt any of us have a very objective assessment of our fathers. As young children, we need them to be strong, protective figures of power in our lives. As adults, we all struggle to reassemble our childhood vision with the necessarily flawed (but at least in my case, always loving) man looking back at us, against whose authority we need to assert our own individual identities.

Fatherhood has gotten the short shrift in our society, and perhaps that is because the role that our culture had created for fathers was not always a very sympathetic one. The stern, often cold, and authoritarian figures depicted in Victorian times mixed with the more recent portraits of men siring then abandoning their offspring may in part be responsible for this phenomenon. I agree that this day ought to celebrate not each man who managed to procreate, but those who have actually done their best at being good fathers.

I’ve written well deserved tributes to my father in this Space before, and I miss his presence in my life on this day, along with the other 364 in the year. Being a father myself now, I have gained a much deeper respect for how difficult and challenging this role can be, as well as how rewarding. I confess that I’ve fallen short on many of the skills fathers are expected to pass on to their sons. My athletic pretensions have been limited, and I’m grateful that my son at least has learned to like hiking and skiing with me. I don’t know how to fix cars, track a deer, or perform home repair without requiring medical attention. Needless to say, my son has been left bereft in these departments. I’m less than enthused about facing danger, and work hard at avoiding confrontation. I’m not the ideal role model of the dads I used to see depicted in Boy’s Life. Despite my many shortcomings, I somehow managed to produce a son who to all appearances has a strong moral core and a kind heart, though he probably would not rate high on aggression, competitiveness or some of the other “manly” traits. I can pride myself on the fact that he’s become independent, self supporting, and happy with the choices he’s made in his life. In this respect, I can answer the question that I asked on this day, “What makes a good father?” My son.

Anyone who’s lived even for a short time knows that life holds disappointments, corners filled with sorrow and loss. Conditioned by experience, many of us learn to hold our hopes in rein until the goal we seek is clearly in sight, appearing just about in our grasp. It is at these moments that we open ourselves to the mockery of Fate, who snatches our perceived victory in the instant we feel the race is won, the prize is ours.  We attempt to console ourselves with old bromides about “things happen for a reason” and “there are worse things in the world than…..” but experience trouble in being consoled by these words. I’ve had one of these moments recently, and while in the big scheme of things it is by no means the end of my world, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it hurts, and I feel down as a result. Tomorrow is likely to be a brighter day, but for now, the following poem dealing with ultimate loss speaks to my feelings.

THIS HARD APRIL

The sky crushes

blue this afternoon.

Loss jostles against the light

that filters gold and green

through new leaves

as I travel downhill.

Death feels wrong in such weather.

Cherry blossoms drift across the street –

spent petals linger

like a remnant, a memory

that tugs at the corners.

Grief holds, a stone in the gut,

or  a great hollow, as vast

as the heavy sea.

This early mourning is not mine,

but I know the taste of it.

I know the cold arms of that ocean.

The storm stays under my skin,

comes back in a rush.

I forget the way

to smell fresh-cut grass

without sadness, how to lean

into the road ahead. Instead, I feel

the many words for sorry,

and none of them enough.

Joannie Kervran Stangeland