In case you’ve been living under a rock these past few weeks, allow me to mention that Sunday is Father’s Day—that day set aside to honor fathers for all their contributions to the world in general and family life in particular.  So far I’ve received emails encouraging me to shop the specials and surprise my dad with any number of goodies, been reminded via the magic of television that his appointed day is just around the corner and I need to be prepared, hopefully with something more than a tie or soap-on-a-rope (the once ultimate Father’s Day present), and pelted with pop-ups and targeted ads on MSN and Facebook suggesting all kinds of lovely and thoughtful gifts.

I appreciate all of their helpful reminders and suggestions, but I don’t need to find Father’s Day presents anymore, just like a lot of other children in this world.  I quit needing those on November 23, 2009 and, truth be known, I don’t suppose I ever really needed them at all.  Dad was just pleased to be remembered and, in his eyes, a visit would have accomplished the same thing—and cost a lot less money.  If he was nothing else, he was fiscally conservative.

It’s his absence that makes special days like Father’s Day so much harder than they once were.  Where before the most difficult task was selecting a gift that was at least semi-appropriate and hopefully useful, now the hard part is watching and listening as the world celebrates Dad when mine isn’t present to participate.  There will be the obligatory Father’s Day sermons where all the dads in attendance will be reminded of their duties to their families (which I’ve never understood—mothers get glowing commendations for their value and sacrifice while much of the time, dads are just told they need to step up their game).  There will be Father’s Day lunches or suppers and visits made and cards given and then Monday will roll around and most everyone will settle back into their take-them-for-granted routines.   Because dads are always there, doing the mundane dad tasks of life, without making a big deal out of their efforts.

But as one who no longer gets to participate in the festivities, I would like to encourage everyone who still can to forego that return-to-the-routine thing.  What I wouldn’t give to have mine back—not as he was, but as he used to be—energetic and decisive, inquisitive and brilliant, with his dry wit and that mischievous twinkle in his eye, serving his family and his fellow man . . . and generally arguing his foes into submission with his interpretation of cold, hard facts and persistence.  Well, that last part I could probably do without since I was often on the receiving end (head-butting was a common occurrence since we were kinda the same person . . .).

So, this coming Sunday, let’s all take the time to honor our dads—or their memories—and give them the time and respect they deserve.  And then let’s continue to do that each and every day for as long as we’re allowed . . . which won’t be forever.  Joni Mitchell may have been referring to paradise and parking lots—among other things—when she wrote Big Yellow Taxi , but she had it right when she sang,  “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?”

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