My Father, on Father’s Day

My late father never understood blogging. Or really any sort of public-facing non-scientific personal reflection. Even the words he wrote to himself in his journal were anodyne. Regardless, those words served for him, and now for me, as a logbook, and one that, on this Father’s Day, allows me to draw him a little closer. Here’s what he wrote over the years:


Calls from all my sons and Nana in honour of Father’s Day.


Call from John with Father’s Day wishes.


Father’s Day call from Stephen.


Call from Stephen to wish me a happy father’s day, good long chat.

Father’s Day call from Peter.


Got to Mike’s at 1250, great birthday and Father’s Day cards from him and stopped to admire his balcony plants and new barbecue.

Call from John with birthday and Father’s Day wishes.


Morning calls from Peter and Steve to wish me a happy Fathers’ day, Steve called back again and we had a nice long chat.

Father’s Day call from John and had a long conversation.


After dinner, Peter called to wish me a happy Father’s Day and we had a long conversation about many things.

Steve called to wish me Happy Father’s Day and I had a nice long chat with him and then I called John and did the same.


My 73rd birthday and Father’s Day too!

Call from Johnny, also a cute Happy Birthday phone message from A.


John called to wish me Happy Father’s Day and I remembered to wish him the same just before I hung up.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.


Oliver's picture
Oliver on July 2, 2024 - 13:45 Permalink

I was thinking about how I’ve always saved postcards people have sent me, even when they say nothing personal or interesting, and I was reflecting by on it the other day. It gives me an idea of what your dad’s motivation might have been. My thinking about the postcards is that not that they show or tell me anything in particular but that keeping them would both prompt me to remember and when rencountered they would jar my memory. In the past at least I had a great memory, which in the case of a postcard would be about my feelings for the friend and our conversations and doings around their trip. Even if I’d been willing and anywhere near able to speedily jot down everything I thought and felt about this souvenir from my life (not from the sender’s life), I had the idea that the act would taint and reduce the record in head with respect to future use. By keeping the cards I am kind of spotting myself in the act of remembering—is how I’ve thought of it. Also I’m inventorying and ordering my memories by way of the dates on the cards. Does that sound anything like what your dad could have had in mind?