COMPILED
by
Keith Hunt
HISTORY
SPOKANE, Wash. (AP) - Every dad who gets a new tie today, or
just spends the day kicking back, owes a debt to the mother of
Father's Day.
Without SONORA SMART DODD, the third Sunday of each June might
be just another day of lawn-mowing.
DODD was just 16 when her own father, U.S. Civil War veteran
William Jackson Smart, lost his wife in childbirth and was left
to raise their six children.
In 1909, when she was 27, she listened to a sermon about
Mother's Day and wondered why there was no day for dads.
And the sermon set her on a campaign for a Father's Day
observance.
She promoted Father's Day out of a love for her father.
Dodd persuaded the Spokane Ministerial Association to pass a
resolution in support of Father's Day and the first local
observation was held June 19, 1910.
MEMORIES ARE FOREVER (Taken from the Calgary Sunday Sun of June
20th, 1999)
Dads aren't disposable - but we take them for granted too often
Dads never forget. There are times when you wish they would -
when your 17 and trying to sneak quietly into the house two hours
after curfew; when you're 25 and they gently remind you about
that little loan you owe them; when your 45 and they insist on
telling your children about the goofy, irresponsible things you
did when you were their age.
But those aren't the things fathers really never forget.
Dad will always remember the first time he held his newborn,
and that special, indescribable way the baby's head smelled.
Dad never forgets the first time you wobbled away on a bicycle,
riding free of his supporting hand.
Dad remembers teaching his child to throw a baseball or bait a
fishing hook or drive a car.
Dad will always hold a vivid mental picture of handing his
teenage daughter over to the care of a fresh-faced young man on
her first date - or watching his own boy, too soon grown into a
man, nervously preparing for his own first serious encounter with
the opposite sex.
Dads coach hockey teams, and teach you to light a fire and
drive you to dance classes.
Dads fix things - whether it's a broken bicycle or a broken
heart.
Dads use hammers and plenty of hugs.
Not all dads will have these memories in the 1990s. Dads come
in a lot of varieties - fathers in traditional families, divorced
dads who do their best to share their wisdom with their children
on too-brief weekends, step-dads who fill in with love what they
missed through biology, uncles and relatives and friends who
substitute for estranged dads who do not know what they are
missing.
It's not easy being a dad, and we too often take them for
granted. There was a time when we saw fathers as the teachers of
the tough lessons of life, the disciplinarians, the breadwinners,
the stoic figures of reserve and calm. Now we expect so much
more. A '90s kind of dad is supposed to be a manly man - but a
sensitive guy too, who shares his feelings and isn't afraid to
shed a tear.
A '90s dad shovels snow and mows lawns and paints walls - but
also cooks and cleans and changes diapers.
It's been popular to demonize men as the macho cause of the
myriad woes that afflict our troubled society. That's just unfair
and wrong. Yes, some men are bad-tempered and violent and
villainous. But most dads - the overwhelming majority - are
decent, honest, hard-working guys trying to do the best they can
for their families.
Dads never forget.
Don't forget Dad today.
CELEBRATING DAD (From the Calgary Sunday Sun, June 20, 1999)
It turns out father really did know best by Sydney Sharpe
My father never lived to see the great dad I married. The Second
World War took years off his life. But when he lay on his death
bed years go, looking for reassurance on his role as dad, I
could only smile, squeeze his hand and remember.
It was the early '70s and on our campus, every authority figure
was a "capitalist pig." My letters to my father in those
rebellious college years always began: "Dear running-dog-of-the-
capitalist-pig dad." For one birthday, I sent him socks and a
copy of Chairman Mao's little red book. For another, I sent
aftershave and a T-shirt of Che Guevera. I ran for student
council at U of A with a bag over my head, to make some point I
can't quite recall. Dad never belittled my outrageous opinions.
He never said: "I fought in the Battle of Britain, flying death
traps and watching my friends burn in the sky, so you could spout
Marxist claptrap?"
No, he barely mentioned his heroic battles, likely because it
was too painful to recall.
Instead, he read the radical little pamphlets I sent.
He was delighted his daughters were in college, regardless of
their long, straggly hair, tight torn tops, baggy bell-bottoms,
clunky boots, and even clunkier notions.
I guess he figured that by the time we'd grown up, he'd done
everything he could.
Being radical back then was easy. Everybody was. We all
marched, hoping to change the world with lower tuition fees. We
flashed peace signs, thinking we were so unique, all doing our
own thing. Yet every college kid in America and Europe was
shouting the same slogans, singing the same songs.
Dad knew this was the rite of passage of our generation, a far
cry from his and his father's. Their passage was war, vast fields
and skies of death and horror, that they carried within for the
rest of their lives.
We had the freedom to rebel because of what they did.
If they'd lost, would we have been able to march and protest?
Not a chance!
Whenever dad asked me what I planned to become, I always said:
"A revolutionary guerrilla fighting in the jungle."
Instead of yelling outrageously, or laughing uproaringly at the
absurdity of it all, he merely smiled and said: "How about
becoming a teacher or a writer?"
"Oh Dad, you're so bourgeois," I replied. Dad knew of course.
I did become a teacher - a professor, actually. And I became a
writer.
My former radical friends became professors, lawyers, writer,
stock brokers, merchant bankers, entrepreneurs, politicians.
Dad certainly did something right.
Maybe it started when we canoed on those mountain rivers far
from the urban mindscape when all that mattered were the eddies
and the white-water. Maybe it started when he never questioned
the friends I brought home. Dad never uttered an intolerant or
discriminatory word, ever. Not that he was quiet. No, the
partriach of the Sharpe clan was known for his quick temper.
And when it blew, we ducked.
But his great values of education, equality, and tolerance were
as much a part of our home as the air we breathed there.
As my editor, Chris Nelson, says: "Anyone can be a father. It
takes a real man to be a dad."
Happy Father's Day, all you real men.
HE'S SO SPECIAL BECAUSE.... (From the Calgary Sunday Sun, June
20, 1999)
My dad is special because he is my dad. He works two jobs so
that mom can take care of me and my two sisters. He coaches me in
soccer. Dad is helping me build my train set in the basement. My
dad is terrific.
Anthony Von, age 9
Eight reasons my dad is the best! He's funny, kind, thoughtful,
caring, talented, and strong. He makes me feel special and gives
the best hugs!
Holly Snelling, age 9
My dad is so special because he calls me Buddy. I think dad is
my best buddy, too!
Colton Rozander, age 5
My dad is special because he will wrestle with me, and will
play soccer and Barbies. He is lots of fun and I love him.
Ashley Elsom, age 4 1/2
My dad works real hard, and has a BIG heart. He makes me laugh
LOTS, and I know I'm always loved.
Love, Tanysha
I think my dad is special because he volunteers at my school,
he plays baseball with me, he buys me clothes and treats, and he
helps me with my homework.
Michelle Cavanagh
Our daddy is the best! He always has lots of hugs and kisses -
but mostly because he loves us no matter what!
Tyler and Kristi Wolfe
My dad is special because he cares when my brother, sister and
I get hurt or something bothers us, he's there. I love my dad!
Kimberly Santos
My dad is special because he scoops the dog poop in the
backyard, and me and my little sister don't have to. We have a
big dog.
Dylan and Madison Huffman
Dad is playful. Dad likes hugs and kisses. Dad makes me
breakfast. Dad likes spending quality time with me and my sister.
Sarah Bruce, age 6
When I was 10 years old, I needed an operation. My dad stayed
with me in the hospital and slept in the bed besides me.
Shawn Champagne
He's always there for us, either when we get into trouble, or
when we just need some time with him.
Amanda Taylor, age 11
..........................
Compiled June 1999
All articles and studies by Keith Hunt may be copied, published,
e-mailed, and distributed, as led by the Spirit. Mr.Hunt trusts
nothing will be changed without his consent.
