Forty years ago, Father’s Day was June 17th. Officially, Chicago Public Schools had another week of classes, but Friday had been the end of the year celebration, held in West Chatham Park. Then, the swings were wood planks hanging on heavy metal chains from poles over asphalt. The climbing frames, we called monkey bars (was that politically correct?), were on the same asphalt. No sawdust. No dirt. For as often as I fell, my folks should have had stock in Johnson & Johnson pharmaceuticals. Or offered me as a poster child for Band-Aid. But I have not memory of accidents on that morning of June 15th.
I loved that I lived three houses from the park. So it was like the end of the year party was in my front yard – that is, the yard I shared with all the kids of West Chatham Neighborhood. As we ran around the park that morning, my classmates had watched my dad washing his new Black Mercury Marquis on the street in front of the house. I loved that my dad was home in the mornings. Mom worked days, and dad worked nights, so I was daddy’s girl at lunchtime. So, I loved that when I was elementary school, we walked home for lunch.
And that Friday, my dad did what he often did – he took me out for fast food. On Mom’s off days, I’d get something fancy, like bologna on white bread with lettuce, a slice of American cheese, and Miracle Whip. The usual fare was peanut butter and jelly. I still LOVE PB&J. But every so often Dad would say, want to go out?
Fred and Jack’s was a local hot dog joint with awesome shakes. Regularly, my folks would drive in on a Saturday or Sunday evening just for ice cream. Beside Fred and Jack’s was the McDonald’s on Vincennes. I remember watching the how-many-served-number increase rapidly. If was as if McDs hamburger sells were parallel to my capacity to comprehend larger numbers. (yeah, I’m that old). Those were the two options Dad usually offered during the hour I had before returning to school, and he had to leave to get to work. June 15th, 1973 it was McDs. I had the two-all-beef-patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions-on-a-sesame-seed-bun Big Mac. Dad took me back to school and he went to work. I don’t remember that afternoon.
I don’t remember the plans we had for that weekend. Saturdays were my other days with dad. Most Saturdays seem to begin with a picnic! We would go to Washington Park in the morning where he played softball with his coworkers. The rest of the day I’d run errands with dad; follow him around as he worked in the basement or in the yard; watch the baseball games on the television; read. Me and my dad.
The weekend before had been a family reunion in Milwaukee. A short road trip. Mom. Dad. Me. We were planning to take a longer one later. I loved summers, because we always took road trips. Dad captured most of them in photographs. Dad was the photographer in the house. Neither he nor Mom spent much time in front of the lens – that was my role! That Sunday, as we returned from the reunion, I took a barely discernible picture of my parents in front of our house. It’s only that photograph that keeps the memory of that Wisconsin road trip in my consciousness.
I vividly remember waking up on Saturday June 16th. I could hear my mom, but not comprehend what she was saying. It was early. Very early. Something was wrong. I came downstairs, and she sent me back to my room with instructions to dress quickly. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask why. I got dressed, putting on the same sweater I had worn in my school photos that year. When I came back to the living room Mom was waiting for me on the couch. And then she told me. There had been an accident. Someone had run a red light going 110mph. We would later learn that, at that impact, Dad probably never knew that he had been hit.
No more road trips. No more softball games. No more spontaneous lunch outings. Did I even tell him I loved him before he went to work yesterday? I think I did. I hope I did. That’s why I always tell Mom I love her. I want her to know. And I want to remember that she knew.
I have more memories of the events surrounding Father’s Day 1973. One was a request I made of my Sunday School teacher’s husband. To be honest, I don’t remember precisely what compelled me to approach him. But I did. They had one daughter, a classmate of one of my older cousins. I have not memory of why I thought she would want to share her father. So, with the expectant innocence of a child, I asked if he would stand in as my dad. And he said yes.
I’m not sure what compelled him to say yes. He knew how special my dad was to me. And he never competed with those memories. Instead, he provided 40 years of moments to remember: Riding with him on the back of his tandem bike. Taking me with my friends roller-skating. Every graduation, he was there. My ordination. He visited all but the last church I served. We talk regularly. He’s a prayer warrior. He and his wife just celebrated 60 years of marriage. She and their daughter have unreservedly shared him with me.
Being a father has less to do with making a baby than it does making memories. Memories shape our imagination. Memories provide stories around which to form our lives. It’s not a memory that holds us back. It’s the story we tell around the moment. The most tragic moment of our lives are transformed if the story told moves us forward. I only had to live June 16th 1973 once, though I’ll never forget that day. But, it’s only a moment. One accident shaped my entire future. Transformative. Tragic. But, it was only a moment because so many more memories came before and after that Saturday forty years ago.
So this Father’s Day I publicly thank my heavenly Father for the privilege of two extraordinary men – Jim Taylor Moore and Joseph N. Strong – who called me their daughter and gave me moments by which to shape the story of how I remember my life.
Now, I’ve got two phone calls to make – to my mom…and to my Daddy Strong.
(originally posted on joyseroom 16 june 2013)