THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 19, 1994 TAG: 9406190047
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
DATELINE: 940619 LENGTH: Medium
My husband passed by him on the boardwalk, as he was heaving a wagon full of approximately the same kid gear up a flight of stairs to the beach. Our two children and I ran ahead to dig our toes in the warm sand.
{REST} As they crossed paths in the hot sun, these two sweating dads struggling under the load of requisite kid equipment, the man dryly said to my husband: ``Isn't it great being the dad?''
It is today anyway.
A toast to dads. Here's to the dad who raised me in a '60s world where dads worked and moms stayed at home. And to the younger dad I live with, the one who's never flinched from duties fathers once passed off to mothers.
First, to the dad who took me to the library for my first library card. Who waited until I was old enough to take care of the books, then led me up the concrete steps, my tiny sneakered feet next to his Paul Bunyan ones in dusty leather work boots. Together we filled out the card that opened up a world far beyond the Missouri farm town I grew up in.
To the dad who taught me to respect the land, not in the way hikers and campers do, but in the way Midwesterners who make their living off it do. To the dad who taught me the Depression-era value that less is more, and, at the same time, that ``the best is the cheapest in the long run.''
To the dad who taught me how to drive, and didn't cover his face with his hands, and tried not to yell. Who only winced when I knocked over the parallel parking posts. And didn't say a word when I failed my first driving test, but took me to try again.
To the dad who drove me to my first newspaper job in West Texas, even though he didn't want me moving there. He gave me a 1974 Plymouth sedan, and $2,000 to get started on. Then caught a cab to the Greyhound bus station because he didn't want me driving after dark. In that dusky goodbye moment on the hotel doorstep, I could see him struggle between protecting his little girl and giving her independence.
And here's to the '90s dad I know, the one who lives at our house. The one who has never uttered, ``Oh deeeaaar, the baby's diaper needs changing.'' But changes it himself.
Who packed away his sailboat and fishing poles after two daughters were born. And plans to unpack the gear when the kids are old enough not to sample the fishing bait.
To the dad who doesn't wait in the car while we buy frilly Easter dresses or sign up for swim classes, but weighs in on everything from lace socks to toddler swim strokes.
Who gets up in the middle of the night when a kid is sick, and never misses a parent-teacher conference.
To the dad who challenges his daughters. Who makes them walk when I tend to pick them up and carry them. And watches as their angry tears turn to sweaty glows of pride.
Here's to the dad who doesn't have to ask ``What's for supper?'' because he's the one cooking it.
To both fathers, the one I knew best when life was sweet and tender, and the one I'm traversing a tougher but no less satisfying '90s with, Happy Father's Day. by CNB