Editor’s note: This op-ed is by Bob Stannard, a lobbyist and author. This piece first appeared in the Bennington Banner.
Father’s Day generally falls close to my birthday. Once we had kids — a zillion years ago — I was able to capitalize on both days, thus making the middle of June a time of great celebration.
Celebrating birthdays has always seemed like something that needs to happen. I mean, isn’t it a remarkable thing that you’re here? What would this place be like without you?
Of course, there is always the dilemma of not only what to get someone who has two mega-events back-to-back, but also how to give. What’s the etiquette? Do you get a smashing gift for the first event and something more subdued for the second, or vice versa?
I was sitting in my ancient Sky Chair swinging from the rafters of a new garden shed we had just finished (more or less) last week. The old, temporary shed that was built 33 years ago is finally about to tip over. When you have had as many birthdays as I now have (61 as of yesterday) you start thinking differently. You start taking a longer view of things. That old garden shed (which started out as a sauna and over time morphed into a garden shed) will go before I do. It needs to be replaced with a building that will be here for another 30 years. You start thinking about things like roofs and sheds when you hit 60.
Then there’s the question — what to get for someone over 60 these days? By this time you should have about everything you need and you’re probably thinking about downsizing, getting rid of stuff, not adding more to the pile. Food is good because you can eat it, enjoy it and don’t have to carry it up to the attic later on.
My daughter, Meredith, came through with a pretty cool gift. She sent me a pair of cufflinks, but not just any old cufflinks. These cufflinks have a tiny picture of my granddaughter, Thyra Grayce, somehow molded into them. Meredith’s her father’s daughter. She had figured that one cufflink would suffice for my birthday; the other for Father’s Day. No moss growing on this one.
Throughout the day friends called or stopped by, along, of course, with the bazillions of greetings from the Facebook friends, some of whom I even know. The day waged on yet I had still not heard from my son.
Funny how at times like these that one’s lungs forget their involuntary role of drawing air in and out of the body.
“Well, he’s probably really busy working hard today,” I rationalized. He works for Rick’s Pics Gourmet Pickle Co. in Manhattan and sets up farmers markets in Manhattan and Brooklyn on the weekends. Most likely he’ll call later, but if not, that’s OK, I thought, we’ll talk at some point.
As I kicked off one of the posts to enhance my swinging experience, my cell phone rang. Caller I.D. showed that it was my son, Wesley. Oh ye of little faith. Of course he wouldn’t forget your birthday/Father’s Day weekend.
After wishing me a “Happy Birthday,” he asked to be put on speakerphone so his mom could hear what he had to say. It’s hard to express the level of anxiety that began to swell up. Alison had a look of concern on her face as well.
“May and I are getting married next week and we’re having a baby in January,” his voice broadcast over the speaker of my iPhone.
Funny how at times like these that one’s lungs forget their involuntary role of drawing air in and out of the body. The heart also seems to go on sabbatical for an hour or so as well. I looked at Alison who suddenly appeared as though she was in a Norman Rockwell painting. I’m guessing I had a similar expression of shock on my face.
After that bombshell sunk in, we were both very happy and excited at the prospects of becoming grandparents for a second time. It turns out that the due date of this soon-to-be-person is also the 70th wedding anniversary of Alison’s parents.
Naturally, all of the emotions associated with things like marriage and babies ran rampant in our minds. How is this going to work? Can they afford a child? Can they survive the child-raising years? You know, the same questions that were asked about you by your parents when you informed them that you were getting married and having kids.
I’ve often said that there’s no good time to have kids. Should you methodically plan for the exact right time, you’ll be 82 before you have them. As I swung back and forth, I realized that next year my son would celebrate Father’s Day right along with me.
I think next year I’ll wear a French-cuff shirt with last year’s cufflinks as I hold my new grandchild and gently swing in a Sky Chair hanging from the rafters of a shed that will be here long after I’m gone.
