Whether you loved your father, hated your father, or were indifferent to him, you have to have a heart of steel for Father’s Day to pass by unnoticed. Yes, it’s an artificial holiday, begun by — to quote Eddie Izzard on the connection between chocolate eggs and Easter — “Well, you tell me.” Unlike “couch” or “tree,” the word “father” resonates with conflicting emotions. Inexorably, Father’s Day draws from most of us at least a small bit of rumination on our own dads.
This morning, after reading many sentimental tributes to various particular fathers that pepper the media every Father’s Day, it struck me that for those of us whose fathers have passed away, the day is as much a day of regret as it is a day of celebration. Depending on a combination of what fathers were like, our memories of them, and our own natural dispositions, thoughts about our fathers lean more toward retrospective fondness, tinged with a little bitterness, But in practically all cases, we’re haunted by what might have been.
Robin, blue jay, sparrow, woodpecker, Baltimore oriole, cardinal, chickadee. Oak, maple, birch, fir. That’s about all I know when it comes to the names of birds and trees.
My dad, on the other hand, seemed to know the name of every bird, tree, and bush in the northeastern United States. Blessed with superb eyesight, he could spot a tiny bird at the top of a tree, and using his knowledge of the shapes of birds’ bodies, heads and wings, as well as their songs, he would always casually and quickly identify that small blur for his daughters.
He did his bird watching almost daily, staring at them for hours at a time through his binoculars, from behind a large picture window at the rear of our house. The birds flew in and out of the feeding area he’d carved out for them in the woods behind our home. Ornithologically, the place was a veritable O’Hare Airport — birds coming and going as if directed by an air traffic controller. My father kept track of the different species of birds in a register going back decades. After my mother followed him off this mortal coil, my sisters and I threw it away when we cleared out the house before it was sold. Did I mention “regret”?
My father knew viscerally what I know only intellectually — that naming is the bedrock of knowledge. How can I understand even the littlest bit about nature if I don’t even know the names of the birds that fly through the air above me and the trees on which they land?
Two decades after my father passed away, I think how dumb I was, back when I was a kid, and had the chance, never to have taken him up on his offer to sit by his side and watch the birds.
