Obligatory Fathers' Day Post

Ah, Fathers' Day is coming up and so I must write something about it. Usually, it comes and goes without much fanfare. That's fine. My children love me and my wife doesn't need to buy me presents "from the kids." Except this year.

No. This year is different. I have needs that I've let go just so there would be something to buy good ol' Dad for Fathers' Day. I need cologne. I've been stretching some god awful dollar-store aftershave for months. Not that I wear a fragrance every day, but sometimes it's nice.

I've encouraged my wife to pick one that she likes. Go off the reservation, if you will, and get me something different. That said, I fully expect a bottle of Jovan Musk. Evidently, that's what I'm supposed to smell like.

Annual Rituals

There are certain things you do. Every year. Such things give structure to our lives. The annual ritual at play now are strawberries.

Strawberry picking at Red Wagon Farms is something we look forward to every year. It's not much, I guess. Nothing like fresh, locally grown produce that ripens on the vine and not in some warehouse or cargo hold.

Perhaps we will make freezer jam this year. After all, we have the strawberries and the mint. Just as long as they don't all get eaten before we get around to it.

Allentown Art

I don't know why the Allentown Art Festival is such a well-kept secret. Then again, it took years for word of buffalo wings to spread from Buffalo, NY.

It had been over a decade since I had gone to Allentown. It used to be a yearly event for my wife and I. Imagine hundreds of artists, lining several city blocks with booths full of their work. Art at all levels. Everything from a $2 bauble to a $5000 painting. Much of it practical, much of it beautiful.

It is hard to adequately describe. Every town has an open art show. Yawn.

Miles of booths? Of art? Really? How many watercolors and pottery bowls can one person enjoy?

Let me put it this way: my daughter wasn't thrilled about the trip. She, too, thought it would be a bore. Well, she wandered into more booths than my wife and I together. There were hand-painted underwater scenes that, with polarized glasses, appeared 3D. That blew her away.

We only bought a few, useful items. A Corian cutting board. A pottery vase. Three photographs for the kitchen, depicting food.

Every year, we meet someone we know there. This year was no exception. We had dinner with some old friends, breakfast with others.

As a bonus, I bought myself a couple beer glasses at the Buffalo Brew Pub - where my wife and I had our first date. Nothing better than a Buffalo Lager, a beef-on-weck, and friends to share it with.

Garbageman

The garbageman  came today. I'm not talking about the BFI truck. That comes later. I mean the garbageman, or perhaps garbage picker might be a better term. He comes in a pickup truck, not far removed from the things he fills its bed with.

Most neighborhoods have one, I suppose. One day, I had a brief chat with him. He is somewhat shy, because most people would rather shoo him away from their refuse pile than say, "hi." I asked him what he looked for. "Metal," was his reply. He takes metal and sells it by the pound. He was delighted at our old stainless kitchen sink. That was seven dollars right there.

I don't always have metal, but when I do I try to separate it out and put it in a conspicuous box. Consider it a lazy man's recycle program, if you will. It's not charity, though. The garbageman earns his dollar.

Why don't we talk?

Men don't talk, and we call it a virtue. I would argue that it is not. The stories of our lives matter to others, but they are often told - if at all - after our demise. My wife lost her mother at age four. But my wife never learned much about her, because her father didn't say much about her. I learned things about my father that were both interesting and inspiring - at his memorial service.

It is commonly thought a virtue to not brag about oneself. No one's achievements are, truly, solo endeavors. Even the man who climbs the mountain first does so with the aid of a multitude. Not just the Sherpa who carries the pack or the pilot that flies him in country. Even the woman in a far off land who sews the backpack together helps the man climb the mountain.

Tell the story of your mountain climb. The boy who pumps the water in the village would like to hear of his triumph.