Monday, June 02, 2008
The holidays I've come to dread
From the RoundTable blog
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W. Joseph Quam
Quam lives and works in Blacksburg. He is a tech writer for a software company.
Each year, I actually find myself dreading two holidays. That's not such a big deal, really, as I know a bunch of people who dread the Christmas season due to the overly commercial nature of it, or the general hassle of having to deal with relatives they don't really like.
I'm a bit different in that I dread both Mother's and Father's Day. My father passed when I was 13, and my mom passed three months after my wedding in 2000. So, these are the two holidays out of the year in which I cannot participate, save placing a sentimental wreath on aging headstones. I am an outsider looking in, like that poor kid, shivering in the rain, as he or she looks in on smiling, happy faces enjoying their first school dance.
People will tell me that these holidays give me a specific frame of time in which to remember all of the great things my parents gave me. This advice, while tender and well-meaning, is incorrect. The things my parents gave me are with me daily.
Physically, I am a mish-mash of their features: I have my mother's eyes, my father's nose, and a combination of both of their cheekbones. The things they taught me about being a Christian, a citizen and a man are also part of me. You might say I have a Mother's and Father's Day daily, as I am a sum of all their parts and wisdom.
But when others are celebrating with their parents, I and countless others can find solace only in the misty dreams of memory, when our parents bounced us on a knee, played ball with us, showed us how to can green beans, or any number of a million brilliant glimmers parents pass on to their children. Those children now alone at their passing. Those orphans.
Mother's and Father's Day are specific days when children bestow upon their parents some measure of their gratitude and appreciation for the experiences their parents have given them, shelter they have provided, and the shoulders they have lent to cry upon. This appreciation can be handled individually or with a group, but the important point is that it is bestowed upon the living. I don't care if you can only call them for five minutes. Call them. The dead have no cellphones.
So, those of you with one or both of your parents, grandparents, great-grandfathers, or some other concoction of parental influence still in your lives: Enjoy them while you can.
Those of you grumbling at your parents know this: I would give a good portion of my life's blood to have one more conversation with my father. If you fail to recognize how important your parent's influence has been, then it is your own damned stubborn fault. You will receive absolutely no sympathy from me.
And for those of you like me, you orphans -- carry on.
