Summer Sunday: Father’s Day

18 Jun Summer Sunday: Father’s Day

Father’s Day. What does it actually mean? Mother’s Day has clear, crisp expectations: flowers followed by brunch followed by more flowers. But dads lack that stock celebration.

As a child, I remember making homemade cards, baking enormous cake-sized cookies, and giving my father the ubiquitous tie every year. But Telluride men don’t need that many ties and after a while, gifts like that can feel, well, a little flat.

I’ve tried to help my daughters out, Googling cool Father’s Day gift ideas, yet I always end up feeling slightly repelled. In this age of the de-clutter mantra, it feels strange to try and acquire more junk.

But that’s not the only reason I’m turned off. Part of me doesn’t entirely understand the holiday. Is it a day about love? Or a day about gifts? There’s something in me that wants it to lean towards the former rather than the latter, to be a day that’s about more than things.

For this Father’s Day, my husband, Andy, didn’t have much of choice of how he spent it or what gifts he received. I had kicked him and our two daughters out of the house. I had one final graduate school paper to write and between the end of school craze and the arrival of summer, I hadn’t had a moment to even start it.

All things being said, he embraced the challenge graciously. He talked of taking them on a backpacking trip. Of Mt. Princeton Hot Springs. Of checking out the Salida River Festival.

But although he sounded optimistic, I knew he was overwhelmed. He had been even busier than I had. Between editing grade reports and writing his own, finishing up administrative duties at school and holding final meetings, he hadn’t had a second to plan.

I tried not to meddle, tried not to worry, even when I saw the car still parked at the Telluride Mountain School lot at 3 p.m., when they were supposed to leave at 11 that morning. The girls are fine, I said to myself. He’s fine. This is my weekend to write.

But it’s hard not to worry as a mom. It’s one of the things we do best.

I stopped by the school. He’d called to say they’d forgotten the first aid kit, so I had a good excuse.

“So, have you thought about where you might go?”

I tried to sound casual, but the truth was I was routing for something close by. I worried about them going all the way to Salida for only a night.

“I don’t know. Ophir Pass just opened up.”

“So you could drive that and camp out near Durango?”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds cool,” I said, again trying to keep the ball in his court, trying not to sound too anxious.

Yet, when they finally pulled out an hour later, driving our old Land Cruiser, I raised my fist in a silent cheer. If he was taking the truck, he was staying close. I could write up a storm and still have my babies back by sundown the following day. Space, but not too much space.

Hours later, darkness closed in on the western sky. The house felt impossibly quiet. I hesitated, then finally texted: “How was the pass?”

No response. It means they’re having a good adventure, I assured myself. But something tugged at me all night, like a branch that grabs ahold of you in the forest.

In the morning, I awoke to these three photos, snow piled high on either side of the car, wide smiles spread across their faces. I picked up the pencil and continued to write, happy that they’d found their own adventure and happy it was one they found together.