Defining what makes a good dad gets a little gray
My son, Mike, recalls an episode on our vacation in Wisconsin that supposedly validated the World’s Greatest Dad slogan on my coffee cup.
He was wading alone in knee deep water, casting a topwater bait into the whiskey-colored Chippewa River, when he hooked a smallmouth bass.
Smallmouth are among the fiercest fighters as they jet away, aerial out of the water and pull with such strength that it feels like you’re holding a jackhammer instead of a slender graphite rod.
Mike was eventually able to land the fish, but not before the creature’s last dash and sudden turn caused the top set of the lure’s treble hooks to bury themselves in his knee. He decided to head home, about a mile up the hill on Fishtrap Road, carrying his trophy in one hand and the rod and some slack line in the other to minimize the pull and strain of the three nickel plated hooks digging into his leg.
Fortunately, good Samaritan and neighbor Geno Siefeldt stopped to give Mike a ride home in his pickup. The bad news was the barbs of two of the three hooks were embedded beneath the flesh alongside his kneecap, prompting Marianne to declare a visit to the ER and Mike to struggle to hold back tears.
There may be an alternative remedy, I told them.
I had never actually performed the “string, yank technique” for removing a fish hook, but as an avid practitioner of the sport, I had heard and read about it.
So I cut an 18-inch length of fishing line from Mike’s reel and tied each end securely to the bend in each of the two offending hooks.
While his mother spoke soothingly to distract him, I pushed down lightly on the eye of the treble with my left hand so the shaft lined up in the same direction in which, with my right hand firmly gripping the line, I yanked upward.
Amazingly, the hooks popped out, free and clear. I looked up from his knee and realized that Mike had neither felt nor noticed he was suddenly free of the hooks and the fishing line.
And although the story is cataloged in our family history as an episode when Dad came to the rescue, it actually may be evidence that Father’s Day is a hoax.
In fact, I believe I speak for many fathers in admitting that our accolades may be undeserved, and all the gifts and cards inspired by fake news.
Before I explain, I must first caution that none of the whistleblower information contained herein applies to Mother’s Day. The first Sunday in May was legitimately designated an occasion for honoring women who endure the pain of childbirth and spend the rest of their lives in sacrifice and selfless commitment to their children.
Whereas, the institution of Father’s Day was a later attempt at fairness, ending up as false equivalency.
For example, removing the hooks from Mike’s knee saved me from having to make a 38-mile drive to the nearest hospital. It also spared me the cost of our Blue Cross deductible payment for an emergency room visit, which we supplanted with a thorough washing of Mike’s knee in warm, soapy water, followed by application of Neosporin and a Band-Aid.
So does it not seem more like a case of pragmatism and self-reliance than any sort of paternal dedication?
The same goes for the memorable Saturday when I accompanied my elder daughter Jackie when she purchased her first car. Was it really a loving manifestation of dear old Dad’s support, or his determination to not get bested by a slick salesman?
When I used to sing “All the Pretty Little Horses” to my younger daughter Janet at naptime and read her the poetry of James Wright at night, was it really an expression of pure affection or simply desire for a little time with my wife?
Or how about teaching all three of my children right from wrong? A matter of paternal pride and principle or a pecuniary interest in keeping them out of jail and avoiding exorbitant attorney fees?
Am I onto something here, calling an end to the hypocrisy of Father’s Day with these dispassionate rationales?
“Get over yourself,” Marianne said. “It doesn’t matter to the kids if you’re no Tom Hanks.” She was referring, of course, to Hanks’ designation as “America’s Dad.”
She went on to say that our kids loved me “flat out” because I’m their father, and I’m there for them.
And that the Dave Barry book they bought for me, along with the new coffee mug with a Lab’s face is to show their love, fierce and unqualified, no matter what.
Which shut me up.
And I’m good with that. I mean, really good.
David McGrath is an emeritus English professor at the College of DuPage and the author of “South Siders,” a recently completed collections of columns on life in the Midwest. mcgrathd@dupage.edu