Our fathers, who art…

Shellie (Daughter One) called me Saturday to say she'd be coming by for a while (she lives across town). How come?

"Well," she explained considerately, "since we're going to the Outer Banks on Fathers' Day, this afternoon we'll be able to hang out together. Plus I need some gas money."

This is why – in her mid-twenties – I still call her a brat. I also gave her gas-money plus.

So while she and my mother, and my sister Mew and her two teen kids (husband Arnie follows next weekend) were on the road to North Carolina this afternoon, I hit the road myself and paid my own dad, and my father-in-law, a visit.

You see, Dad died in 2003, and three days later Norman – my father-in-law – died too; they're buried within thirty miles of each other. So I brought them each flowers, and also left roses at my dad's memorial tree and plaque on the Pennsylvania campus where he'd taught nearly forty years (and within sight of his former office).

Why me? Well, older brother Sarge had office-work that badly needed attention, younger brother Doc is recovering from surgery, Mew was chasing my daughter down Interstate 95, and youngest sister Alicia and her husband (and baby-to-be) are in Italy. So I went – and called Sarge and Doc and Mew each while at Dad's grave, so they could be there too.

(Also gave Spartacus a holler before I left that little town, since Dad's tree is just over the hill (so to speak) from the elementary school Sparks and I had gone to forty years ago. Someday I'll remember to get a photo of that school, send it to him, and see if this can trigger some PTSD…)

Why to my in-laws' grave also? Because Norm and Nan (she'd followed her husband into eternity two years ago) were the only parents-in-law I've ever had, even though their daughter and I separated and divorced over twenty years ago. And they had been devoted grandparents to Shellie (and she was their favorite of eight-some grandchildren), and had remained on friendly terms with me, something I treasured about them.

In her last years, Nan had also been very welcoming of my younger daughter Portia when we'd stop by to visit, and this too I treasured. A kindness to a child is a kindness to the parent.

And kindnesses to the parent, too, should not be overlooked… and not just when it's time to clean the stone again, and leave flowers and a prayer. Since I'm running out of parents, I've tried hard to be especially kind to my mother, and patient with her… and the last several years have made this easier somehow. I counsel friends of all ages to do the same to their own parents.

I'm so greatly relieved, as I've mentioned before, that I was increasingly kind and warm and patient with Dad in his last several years – this is a deep consolation, now that I can't sit down with him in Pizza Hut or Olive Garden anymore. And his equally warm-and-patient response, though more subtle, came to make up for terrible times we saw, growing up and in our early adulthood.

Time heals all.