Final Reflections on a Week in South Dakota

After much delay, here are some final thoughts on our trip to South Dakota:

One of the benefits of life in a campground is the general removal of all the distractions that don’t matter. News for instance. I don’t want to say that the news and the general events of the country and world don’t matter, but it felt so good to not hear the sky was falling for a good long week. And my not hearing about it didn’t accelerate or delay the rate at which it is falling in the least bit.

Television too. There was none. And it was marvelous. I went to bed at the same time as my wife every night, tired or not, because that’s what there was to do. I didn’t stay up too late because I was too tired to get off the couch and turn off the television and go to bed. I didn’t wind down with mindlessness. We played hard all day, made supper at night, washed some dishes, and went to bed. And then when I’d wake up before the others, I’d simply lie next to my wife in a smaller bed, holding her, appreciating the day before and the day to come and the long minutes of half wakefulness that we could share without a job to do or news to watch.

What is becoming clearer and clearer to me is that in all our busyness, some of the greatest demands on our times are the luxuries we’ve invented and convinced ourselves improve our lives. It seems the real luxury is the absence of stuff, the absence of distractions, and the forced proximity that allows you to feed each other’s souls rather than check the calendar for the next event to run to.

Also, I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to be in awe every day. On most days, in multiple ways. The beauty of a wild mustang rambunctiously challenging his peers. The unspeakable ruggedness of the Badlands. The enormity and precision of the American vision cast into granite by ideals, a visionary, and a host of blue collar men feeding their families. A herd of buffalo, and the singular beauty of each one inside of the herd. A sky so big that. . . Words fail. Pictures fail. And to stand in front of something and know that, know that you can’t even talk about what you’re seeing, knowing that you’ll regret turning your eyes away as soon as you do, feeling powerless to take it all in – to do that over and over across a week is to be reminded that the news matters little, the television not at all, and the swelling of gratitude for all of it that accompanies is to feel good and right and true.

It does not take vacation or the natural beauty of National Parks to feel this. For the month and half since we’ve returned, I have a heightened receptiveness to the awe sparked by home. This morning for instance: a silent sixty degrees at sunrise, with the smell of August corn and a light fog settling over the waterways, pedaling over the blacktops of rural Iowa, I soaked in all manner of gratitude at the beauty here. Or the sheer pleasure of breakfast on the patio. Or the way the hymn the noon church bells here in town play stays with me all day, reassuring and uplifting. Or seeing my wife’s eyes light up, any time, and the swelling ache of gratitude that washes over me, knowing she is mine to treasure. Or every second reading aloud with my girls.

I am keenly aware of these blessings, and I am more prepared to see the awe in the every day after being confronted with it every day in South Dakota. There are few feelings I would trade for the wonder of being in awe. It is a better way to live.

Reflections on a Week in South Dakota, Part 2: National Character

With the visiting of Mount Rushmore and several state and national parks, I felt a heightened sense of responsibility to talk about our national character with our girls. About what the American spirit is. Or was. I’m not sure where they get that now – certainly not from the news. From education? I don’t know. I just want them to feel grateful and understand the perspective and perseverance that was required from generations to provide them what they have today. I want them to feel the grandness of this idea and the protections put in place against the folly of fallen humanity and its lust for power. Mostly, I want it to be true.

I want an American spirit that believes primarily in sacrifice and the common good. Is it in us? I am jealous of other generations, jealous of their sparseness. Jealous of their struggles and dangers. Is that a crazy thing to say? We have not been asked to conserve for the war effort. We have not been asked to serve. I’m not sure anyone even tries to use the phrase, “Your patriotic duty,” anymore, even in the most idyllic of settings. What are we made of, now? How would we respond to crisis, aside from attempts to alternately deify political leaders and then damn them when we don’t get what we want? What do we want, now? What is worthy of our efforts?

We have no West to conquer and explore. Our biggest aims are to find shinier and and quicker and more self-serving tools of distraction, or at least to make enough money to buy them when someone creates them and tells us our personal value depends on our ownership of it. We are sanitized from the wars we fight as a nation, and rather than responsibility to our soldiers we speak of war fatigue and our disinterest in the world’s affairs. We know more about Netflix and Youtube than the plight of humanity, and we’d prefer to keep it that way.

I lean to John Steinbeck on this one. If anyone has captured this transition better than him, I have not read them yet. Steinbeck understood the lostness that would occur when the big challenges went away. He saw and wrote repeatedly about how what would harm us the most is what we sought with greatest vigor in the mid-Twentieth Century: comfort, security, and luxury. And here we are, overfed, overspent, and in overdrive, chasing nothing and worn out from doing it, managing to lift our heads and scream only when our personal comforts are not immediately met.

My wife said during our trip that a visit to Mount Rushmore is one of the closest things we have to a national pilgrimage. It felt like one. And I felt a stirring of hope that pieces of the American spirit that I tried failingly to speak to my children about were still left in us when we sat together in an amphitheater after sundown with 2,000 other people and paid tribute in unison to those who had served in our military while a beam of light amplified four iconic presidents. We were unified in our respect for sacrifice, service, and a proud history. I did not want to leave.

Of course, pieces of that hope died while watching a percentage of the audience rush out before the military recognition in an attempt to avoid the discomforts of traffic. . .

It is hard for me to know whether the national spirit is merely our history, or if it is reality shielded by weak leadership and the noise of consumerism. I know that whether it is myth or mystery, I am complicit. But gazing on the Presidents, and visiting state and national parks that have been protected and valued for the common good of all people in all generations to appreciate, even for a mere couple of days, is enough to spur the desire to personally claim it as our legacy and to want to participate so that it does not die.

Reflections from a Week in South Dakota

Our family took a week-long trip to South Dakota in July, and I tried to jot down a few thoughts about it when I got back. I've cobbled it together into what I hope are three coherent posts. The first, below, is some thoughts about fatherhood and my two daughters after a week straight of car time, a shared one-room cabin at a KOA campground, fatigue, picnics, and some of the best scenery on earth:

I don’t want to forget a few things about my girls on this trip, because I know how fast they change and grow, and there are pieces that I don’t want to drift into the shapelessness of vague half memories. 

For instance, how they made friends with every dog owner and dog they saw at our campground, primarily because they missed their own dog. Our cabin was about 100 feet from the little dog park at the campground; and we knew that if we weren’t sure where our girls were, we could look out and see them leaning against the fence, chatting up a dog owner about their trip, or stopped between our cabin and the bathrooms, leaning down to pet a dog that they would almost assuredly describe in terms of how similar or dissimilar it was to a chocolate lab.

Or their independence. Confident, sauntering independence, the kind that makes clear, “This is my campground. I belong here. I need no help,” as they marched off to the pool or the bathroom or the pavilion.

And the vacation journals, of course. The chatty, persuasive prose from the oldest; the descriptive, joy-filled highlights from the youngest filling pages regarding our excursions. Just when I thought I had seen Mount Rushmore from every angle, I was reminded that I hadn't seen it from the angle and expectations of youth. I was enlightened by many sentences from the pens of my daughters.

I hope to forget some of their more memorable violent mood swings, but maybe even those I hope to keep. For few things are more comical to Emily and I than seeing that our youngest is the very definition of the Snickers commercials – the ones where a raging, caustic complainer disappears at the first bite of a Snickers and the eater returns to their true nature. Give our kid some caloric encouragement and watch the rollercoaster speed immediately back to home base.

It was a relief to talk to a friend who had also been to South Dakota at the same time we were, who also had a child who loved to read in the car, a child he had to remind to look up every once in a while and take in what God gave you. I was not alone. Look up!!! You’re going to miss it!!! I wanted to scream this so many times, settling for a toned-down version of it instead, trying to win with the logic that books are about life and this is life, there out the window, life worth writing about yourself some day if you could ever capture it with words.

There’s a desperation in fatherhood to not raise entitled children. I’ve heard the word “privileged” used instead, but I abandon that one because it is privilege that I can’t avoid. My kids are privileged – there is no escaping it. They have been born to parents who love each other, who love God, who have read to them since they exited the womb, who love to travel, and who have the means to do. They have privileges that others do not, and I would not willingly take those from them. What I want to avoid is that privilege leading to entitlement. My girls will grow up taking at least one trip a year, if not two. We’ve been to Austin, Texas four out of the last five years. In the summers they’ve been on extended trips to Duluth, Colorado, and now South Dakota. We routinely go to Minneapolis and Kansas City. We have favorite destinations in our home state of Iowa. These are good places, most of them full of good people who we know and love.

But the danger for me is making travel a ho-hum affair, something to be taken for granted, just another day on the calendar for our kids. I find myself explaining to them often that I took one trip as a kid. One. And it was with four people crammed into the cab of a pickup designed for two. And we loved it. It was special, and I know I have not forgotten most of that experience. Will my kids remember South Dakota? Will they take in its harsh terrain and inexplicable natural wonder with desperation, starving for the visual feast before them? Or will they hear me telling them to look out the window as one loud (but ignorable) obstacle to reading more of their book or playing with a camera?

I remember riding the Cog Railway up to the top of Pikes Peak two summers ago, appalled at the young teenager a few seats over. She was sitting with her family, but she was not with them or the mountain. She was alone, buried in a book, letting the mountain air pass by unacknowledged and unappreciated. She wasn’t rude. She was just not there. And I prayed that someday I would not need to convince my children to soak in all that I had spent 30+ years not seeing, not have to talk around them while they endured some trite little excursion to some other place with some other thing that others strained their necks to see while murmuring distractions.

The struggle is real. But we will continue to travel, here in this privileged youth they are living. And I will continue to point, to speak, to demand page-free hours, hoping to protect them from entitlement and indifference.

What my children want, though, is not necessarily beauty they can see, but an adventure they can live. Rocks to climb. Boulders to conquer. Streams to splash. Wild mustangs to beckon. Gold to pan. Prairie dogs to tempt. It is the doing that excites their soul, and I recognize that better now that the trip is over. This is their awe – what they can experience that they had never experienced before. And I see that in their DNA now. I have felt it before. 

The mistake that’s easy for me to make is to want for them to understand and do what I understand and do now. But this is my stage, and theirs is theirs, and if they miss the grandeur that I take in now, perhaps when they are in their 30’s and taking their children across the country, they can take it in then. There was a stirring in my soul to take a full day in the 100 degree heat and hike a 10 mile trail on treacherous terrain in the Badlands. I wanted to go and do and conquer, too. I can only hope that I don’t lose that passion, or the physical ability to do so, when they are at an age where our desires match.

Until then, we will continue to travel, and we will come home writing about what we saw and did, in our journal or in our blog, and hopefully about what we learned about each other on the way.

A Fridge Full of Wisdom

A friend of mine has placed the core truths on which their family is built on their refrigerator. Like most families, everyone in the house passes by the refrigerator dozens of times each day. As they pass, there in dry erase marker is what they believe and value. The list does not change. In the ebb and flow of family life, in the celebrations and fights and laughter and love and frustration, a few key phrases written out serve to remind everyone there that this is who we are.

I was speaking to someone else recently, someone whose family was going through a major occupational change. They chose the change, chose it for good reasons, and now were dealing with the losses associated with that decision. They seemed to be drowning in that loss. A decision they made that they believed in was now clouded by their feelings. I understand what they are dealing with. When Emily and I decided to leave Nebraska, it was the wisest and most rational decision based on the goals we had for our family. We made the decision and were confident in it; but in the final weeks before we left, we realized just how much we had there. We felt the stings of many farewells to people who still mean a lot to us to this day. Saying goodbye was brutal. But we knew why we were doing it. And we had to keep reminding ourselves of that in the midst of the mourning.

In the first century the apostle Paul was in Rome, in prison, with death imminent, and he wrote a passionate letter to his friend and younger coworker Timothy to encourage him. Typically it is the imprisoned who need encouraging, but Paul had a different perspective. He had more to give, more words of wisdom and support and encouragement, and he pours himself out in this letter. It's a fascinating letter when considering this is essentially the last letter to a close friend, a farewell of sorts, and that Paul must write it under the circumstances in which he finds himself.

Eventually in the letter Paul gives a profound reflection on his circumstances: he is "bound with chains as a criminal. But the word of God is not bound! Therefore I endure everything . . ."

Paul will not allow his situation to define him. Being "bound with chains" is where he is but not who he is. More importantly, he will not allow his situation to define God. There is nothing more true and more important to him that the reality of God's grace and his responsibility to spread the hope and salvation provided by that grace. And he refuses to allow his situation to limit God. Paul understands that the power of the gospel is unchanging, regardless of where he is and how he feels.

It is so easy to make this mistake. We allow our situation and our feelings to create reality for us, rather than what we say we believe is true. But we have to fight that. A little anger and frustration does not change the fact that service and sacrifice bring us great joy and purpose. The folly of politicians should not make us forget that we live in a great country that we are responsible to for more than exasperated complaints. Fatigue does not decrease the importance of our values and desires, and we should not let it allow us to push them off for another day. A loss of job does not change your value. A fight does not change the treasure that is your spouse. A day filled with disobedience and constant mess should not diminish the immense gratitude for our children, the same gratitude felt on the day of their birth. It might be gratitude through gritted teeth, but gratitude nonetheless.

Life and circumstance change us, but they do not change truth. That's why it's so important to constantly repeat the core truths that we believe, whether those core truths are founded on the gospel of Christ or not. Whatever is true, we must speak it to ourselves and to those who share those convictions. Because our chains, our feelings, our limitations, and our circumstances will blow us back and forth and turn us upside down and threaten to crush us at times, and we will need to be tethered to the foundation of who we are and why we do what we do.

In one of my favorite poems that I teach to my AP students, A. E. Housman writes that

"Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, 
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good."

So we must train. And we train through repetition. We need teachers and coaches and mentors in our lives speaking wisdom through experience when we struggle. We need dinners and stories with friends that remind us of what really matters, matters more than our comfort, more than our job, more than our last argument, more than our to-do list. Christians, we need the repetition and unity of the Bible. We all need those words on the fridge, reminding us one snack or drink at a time, who and what we most hold dear.

The Right (and Wrong) Kind of Memorable

There is a moment, or a collection of moments, from a high school baseball game that has stayed with me for longer than the night of the game. Last week was my last week of umpiring for the summer, and much of it has been forgettable. Forgettable is good, generally. Forgettable means that people behaved as people should, at least most of the time, that we marched inning to inning slowly or quickly, kids maybe made memories while my partner and I facilitated, offering structure to this activity that they say is important. Memorable is often bad. Bad like the unspeakable quagmire of a display last week we had to witness from a team and a community who appears to have no adults to speak of, at least none with any contact or concern with their baseball program. That embarrassing evening, a 4 hour marathon of affronts to humanity, was not forgettable. I hope I can wash it away soon.

But it is a different evening I linger with here. A better evening. It was forgettable in most ways. I don't remember the score. I remember who won, but I won't in six months, and I know none of the players. I couldn't even tell you the first names of the kids who pitched. What I remember is the demeanor of the head coach. It's simple, really: he taught. He taught the whole game. He taught on nearly every pitch. Mistakes or successes, ahead or behind, first inning or last, he taught. He encouraged, but not the fake kind of encouragement that no one believes; instead, it was the encouragement of instruction, of saying that Hey, you said this is important to you, so I'm going to make you important to me and teach you how to do this thing. I'm going to show you the way, and I believe that you are not perfect and never will be perfect but can be better, just a little bit better, right now, and again next time, and again next time, and I'm going to keep speaking better into you so long as you're here and valuing this.

This is hard. Unspeakably hard. Few people know how hard it actually is. If you've been to high school athletics, I'm sure you've heard encouragers and teachers. For the whole game, though? It's rare. If you see it, value it. Take it in. Listen and appreciate to the job few are willing or maybe able to perform.

Full-time teaching says a few things. It says that every action matters. That each movement, each decision, is of consequence for the player and for the team. And it is. Full-time teaching says that the player himself is important. Instruction implies that improvement is both possible and important. Full-time teaching tells a player that you're not done yet, that you're not a finished product, that you never will be, that while you are not now good enough you are better than you were and you will continue on this journey during this minute, and the next one, and the next one, with a coach who sees a spectacular and unwritten future for you if you just remember all the time that you're not done yet.

It's easy to see what's wrong with youth and high school athletics today, particularly from the perspective of an umpire. I see a lot of disinterested people, not quite sure why they're doing what they're doing. I see a lot of ultra-interested people, defining this as life and not a mere part of life or a preparation and means for living well. I see money - lots and lots of money - and how many people are making it on the backs of children. I see self-promotion as the new idol, rather than self-sacrifice. Frankly, I often don't see a lot of joy. But then there are nights, nights like this one, where I get to see what's good and right about a bus-full of kids on a diamond in a town 30 miles away on a Tuesday night.

I don't think this team will ever be state champions. Conference championships will be rare enough. But what they will be are carpenters and farmers and real estate agents and fathers who will have had a time in their life when someone told them to get better today, because you matter, because what you do matters, and it matters to a whole lot more people than just yourself.

The team I described in the opening paragraph is also full of kids who are learning. But they are learning without the teaching. They are learning to act on impulse. They are learning that comedy, particularly self-deprecating and self-promoting comedy, is a lot easier than success. They are learning victimhood. And they are learning the silence of adults, the silence of coaches and parents who have decided that they are just not quite worth the effort. I am sorry for them.

I'm not sure how many people think about that when they're watching a high school baseball game or looking at scores in the paper. But I do. I've got a lot of time to think, inning after inning, mile after mile, season after season. I've got time to consider why we're all doing this - umpires and coaches and players and parents alike. And on both kinds of memorable nights, I know.

Today's Verdict

I've been re-reading Ann Lamott's book Bird by Bird the last few days. And I want to write. That's primarily why I picked the book up - out of of hope that it would kick-start me into a more regular pattern of writing. I've found little to write about over the past six months - the only blog posts I've been motivated to write have been about my father, my mother, a basketball season, and my writing failures. All worthy topics. And all prominent in my mind. But I think that's a lie in some ways - it's not all I've found to write about. There have been bits here and there that I always intended to get down but never did, bits that are either lost forever or that will mercifully poke their heads out on a random day yet to be determined. I just couldn't make myself get those words down.

This has been a summer about reclaiming who I am and who I want to be. I don't know if failure is the right word for who I've been over the last several months, but disappointment probably hits close to the mark. Or dissatisfaction. There have been victories; don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed the good. I've had fantastic evenings with my wife, commenting on the complexities of Tim Riggins' character complexities on our weekly Thursday night Friday Night Lights dates, one episode (and gin and tonic) at a time. I lived a great basketball season with my friend. I think the classroom is going well. Friendships are strong. But I cannot help shaking the feeling that I am not who I want to be. Too many late nights in front of the television. Too much fatigue, mostly created by late nights in front of the television. No regular prayer life. No regular reading life. And no regular writing life. I could never make myself do them, daily, those things that I know I most wanted to do. I could do them for a day or two. Maybe one a week for a string of weeks, or a standout week of 3 or 4 times. But the success would lull me into a well-earned day off, which turned into three, which turned into 3 or 4 or 7 straight days of bad eating and empty living in the spare minutes when I could have had so much more.

This was going to be a week of writing, for instance. Finally. I had been waiting for the summer to start up again, to really start up, to just get down words, a few at a time, each day until I found something worth saying. And summer came, and every day got filled. With what, I don't know. Trips to the post office. Dishes. A most maddening war against the cell phone industry that I was ill-equipped to fight. Books. A sermon. Hikes. Naps. Lots of naps. Notes I was supposed to write weeks ago. There was always something else. But this week - this was the week. This was the week that my kids were at church camp all day long, and I was merely at home, just me, no guilt at all for ducking out into my office and doing whatever it is I wanted to do, which is to write words like these. I will write every day, I told myself. I will read my precious Ann Lamott and her quips about the writing life, and I will think, and I will get something down.

But today is Wednesday. I have not written every day. Honestly, it's taken a Herculean effort to write today, these words. I wanted to do so many other things first. Take notes, for instance, on the Ann Lamott pages I've read already, and jot down a list of things I could write about from those pages. I had to shut the book in shame, getting out of my comfortable recliner, all warm from my nap, and sit down and get the keys moving. And I think back and wonder, where did my week go? Where did all that writing time go? It's been a worthy week in many ways. I got stuff done. Vacation planning, for instance. We leave for the Black Hills in a week and a half, and I had been "too busy" to do research and logistics. Not so, now. I can tell you train times and parking fees at National Monuments and give you 5 different options for horseback riding. I've kept a relatively clean house for my lovely wife, who doesn't have the luxury of a season job providing summer hours at home. I've hiked the beloved lab. I've taken extensive notes over 1 and 2 Timothy. I've prayed, another activity I've been desperate to do. And I fired the final cannon shot in my cellular provider war (I hope), a shot more to make noise than to do any real damage, a shot signaling a cease-fire where we'll drunkenly flip a coin and blindly draw up new territory lines in the part-time peace treaty.

All of this to say, that even when I'm not wasting time, it's still hard to find time to do what I want to do. But not impossible. It's not impossible today, and it won't be impossible in the middle of January when I'm coaching 3 games a week and teaching all day and holding on to the waking moments I share with my wife and daughters. It simply comes down to a decision. Today I write. Today I do what I say is important to me. Today I act on behalf of who I want to be.

Tomorrow is another thing entirely. I fear tomorrow. I fear not making it to the screen, and not making it into my prayer journal, not stringing two days together so that I can make it three. But I cannot handle tomorrow. Just today. And today I wrote honest words.

This is hard, of course. And I don't mean writing. It is hard to do anything that makes us who we want to be. It is hard to make time, to make yourself act, to decide that the idea is only real if the action makes it so. A line I remember reading from Bird by Bird while I was distracting myself from not writing was this: "The evidence is in, and the verdict is you." Or something like that. I want to go look and make sure I've got it right, word for word, but I know if I do I won't make it back to this screen for a good twenty minutes. But the idea seems appropriate. We are the verdict of the evidence we've lived. You are not who you want to be without doing the things you say you do. Some of the things you say you are, or want to be, are hard. If you're lucky. For me that is prayer and reading and writing. And it will always be hard. But today, for a short half an hour, I did it. And these words are the verdict.

Summers are for Fathering

We live a very seasonal life here in the Dykstra household. The life of a teacher always will be, particularly a teacher who coaches a little as well. There are ebbs and flows to our seasons; but for my daughters and I, the summer is ours.

Summer is for fathering. I do not ignore my responsibilities or excuse away the other seasons; however, I know that the summer is prime time. Our time to eat breakfast together on the patio. Our time to play in the yard. Our time to grill and bike and swim and hike and read every day in the recliner right after lunch in a pile that I hope never gets too sweaty or too crowded to change locations. It is summer when we will talk about everything and nothing, when I challenge them to grow, and when they challenge me to slow down.

Summer has always been the season of fathering in my life. While my father is not a teacher, I was a student, and the place for a boy out of school in the summer months, whether he is a young boy or a boy old enough to think he is no longer a boy, is on a farm. I never really thought about it until discussing my opportunities with my girls in the summer, but I know now that so much of my time with Dad was from the summer months when timed slowed down and we were suddenly together for most hours every week.

A lot of summer was for work. I know that at first my "work" was tagging along and serving essential management duties, but eventually I was taught (and told) to get my hands dirty. Dad bought me a couple of bottle calves to take care of one summer, a precursor to eventually being charged with upwards of 30-40 young calves at a time. There was work we did together, and work I simply got pointed to. We shoveled our share of manure together. I walked beans a time or two. We baled hay on many a July afternoon, the equitable distribution of labor involving me on the rack stacking, Dad curating my language with every baler breakdown. Eventually summer was for factory work as well, as I worked with Dad on the midnight to 8 AM shift the summer before college. Farm work is where I wanted to prove my worth, and factory work is where I wanted to prove my manhood.

I worked, and Dad worked harder, but summer was also for play. On some summer days there was enough margin to randomly shoot the BB gun together, competitively mocking each other's accuracy. We took aim at sparrows, tin cans, burned out light bulbs, glass pop bottles, fence posts - whatever was handy. There were evenings of wiffle ball in the backyard. There were church softball games that I tagged along to, playing catch with Dad in between men and learning how to talk the game, and compete, and that Dutch Reformed blood runs the hottest, and that even sometimes pastors say shit under their breath after a bad at bat. And there was the annual end of summer trip to Adventureland, where there were no responsibilities, just play, and Dad daring to do what none of us could - the vomit-inducing Silly Silo that makes me dizzy just writing about it.

Summer was for setting an example. I learned by watching, never aware at the time that I was learning. The summers were not centered around keeping me entertained, they were scheduled based on what needed to be done. So I learned how to ride in the truck, sometimes talking, sometimes not, always with the volume up for "The Rest of the Story." I learned how to patiently wait for a cattle tank to fill with water without needing to be entertained. I learned how to talk to men, hard-working blue collar men, the kind who weld and run hardware stores and farm on neighboring land, and I learned it's important to be willing to have the time, to slow down, to shoot the breeze and listen to gossip and stories and rumors and weather reports with these men rather than demand a service and then move on. I learned how to raise a single index finger on the steering wheel to greet oncoming traffic.

Summer was for shared meals, primarily lunch. Most days that was on the farm, with grandma cooking. But some days, lucky days, days I never saw coming, were diner days in town. It was the Maid-Rite for years, later the Mustang Diner, and I knew the magic of summer when the truck pulled in there. We shared the paper as we waited, taking turns between the comics and the sports page. I don't remember anything in particular happening there. Just a man and his son, and sometimes that man's father as well, taking in the local flavor (both in calories and conversation). But I knew it was a good day, a day of significant value, to get to be there.

And sometimes summer was as simple as a surprise bottle of pop from the gas station, swilled down with great satisfaction and strangely a feeling of importance and maturity, particularly if it were after a remarkably sweaty, dirty day in the sun.

And so here it is, another summer, the season of fathering, and I fondly remember being fathered well through many summers of my own. And I am grateful, knowing that being a child in summer under my father's fathering prepared me for these most important summers of my life that I live now.