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by DOROTHY WINSLOW WRIGHT
Sun Columnist
*Archived June 2006 article
When I was a child Father's Day meant giving a small remembrance to my father. My choice was a tin of cigarettes - not the wisest choice, but we didn't know that then. Dad was a Roaring Twenties man, and how debonair he looked inhaling the slim white Chesterfield, blowing smoke rings for his delighted children. It was a simpler time, but soon life became complicated. Divorce impeded our family's togetherness, but I made a special effort to see my dad on Father's Day. No matter the situation, one thing was clear. He was Dad. Period.
Today it isn't so simple. There are biological fathers, stepfathers, adoptive fathers, and fathers of children without benefit of marriage. My first step into the new categories of fatherhood occurred when my mother met the man she would eventually marry. Davey was a quiet, bookish man that my sister and I saw as a family friend since he liked us as well as our mother. When he came to dinner, he cooked and helped with the dishes, which endeared him to me forever. Washing dishes in the pre-dishwasher days was a chore I detested until Davey showed me the fun in working together.
My mother, who felt the stigma of being divorced (a common attitude in the thirties), chose not to remarry until we girls were grown. So we made do with visits from this lovely man. He helped me with my homework, and showed me the dictionary when I asked how to spell a word. In other words, he behaved like a father, and no one was more pleased than I was when my mother eventually married our beloved friend.
When I married Arthur, my father-in-law took me in as the daughter he never had, making jokes and giving me a hug even when I didn't understand them. He was a new kind of father to me. When Arthur and I had children, I saw another side of fatherhood: a loving but firm father, who was intent on raising his children correctly. A stern look did wonders. They were well-behaved children, but no angels. Sometimes Arthur was in cahoots with them like the time they bored a hole in an olive shell they had found at Sanibel Island, Florida. As they threaded it with fishing line, they plotted to play a trick on the Cape Cod shell seekers. When we reached the cape, they tied the line to a brick that they buried in the sand, leaving the tropical shell laying innocently on the sand. That done, we sat on beach towels a short distance away and watched the show.
First came the oohs and ahs, then the frustration. This went on until one angry, determined woman pulled a Swiss Army knife from her pocket and cut the line. We were out-smarted, but to this day the children chuckle, remembering the jokester side of their dad. Now those children have children of their own, so we have many fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers and fathers-in-law in the Wright ohana, each living fatherhood in his own unique way.
One son is stepfather to a sprightly twelve-year-old named Sarah, who loves to dance. He has taken her into his heart as the daughter of his dear wife, while his sons see her as a sister. When I visited at Christmas, the sense of family was strong and clear. Sarah calls my son "Steve" the way I called my stepfather "Davey," and if they develop the loving relationship we had, they will indeed be blessed. Steve helps her with her homework, drives her to dancing class, and isn't the least intimidated when she spins around as she talks, or stands on her toe, one leg in the air. As a father of two boys, he is totally intrigued with the little charmer who brightens his household.
The majority of fathers I know are a caring bunch, but some have opted out, or have lost the joy of raising their children through divorce. My heart goes to them for what they and their children have missed. As the elder of our ohana, I almost feel guilty about the good fortune bestowed on us. I am so proud of the fathers in our family from the experienced dads (some grandfathers now) to the younger men who are dealing with fatherhood for the first time. When Father's Day comes, I will shower them with love and count my blessings.
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