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For a long time, I've embraced Father's Day with the same
enthusiasm as a dental exam or paying my property tax bill. Why? Because for
about the last dozen years or so, Father's Day is just another 24- hour period
in which to complete chores, fix things or otherwise get my hands dirty.
A few weeks ago, on that dreaded third Sunday in June, it was the same old
story. Maybe you are a father who reveled in that "special day" by watching
U.S. Open golf on TV, nestled in your favorite recliner. Or perhaps you were
treated to dinner at your favorite restaurant. Or maybe it was a family
barbecue, complete with the grandkids.
Great. But personally, I'd like to punch Sonora Smart Dodd square in the
jaw. Seems the idea of a day for dads hit her back in ought-9, while listening
to a Mother's Day sermon in church. What's good for mom is good for dad, I
guess.
While it's far too late to ask Sonora Smart Dodd to reconsider, she should
walk in my shoes on Father's Day. Don't get me wrong. I'm family to the core.
Adore the wife, love the kids, and I'm peachy just being at home. But it's my
destiny that on every third Sunday in June, something goes wrong around the
house.
First, let's destroy the idea of sleeping in on Father's Day. My
17-year-old daughter, Allyson, had to be at work at the bagel store at 5:30
a.m. Guess what? She needed a ride - and I was awake.
When I got back, I made coffee. I was sitting on the pool deck working on a
second cup, thinking maybe the day wouldn't be so bad, when I noticed the
liner was loose in spots around the coping. I couldn't help myself. I decided
I'd pay some bills until the pharmacy opened at 9, then I'd go buy wooden
tongue depressors. The depressors wedge the top lip of the liner, called the
bead, into a narrow track at the bottom of the coping. They won't damage the
vinyl and can remain in the track until the bead sets in a couple of days.
It was nearly 10 when I got home.
Time for breakfast. Eggs over easy with toast for the boys, 14- year-old
Matt and 12-year-old Adam. Western omelets for my wife and me. "You cook," my
wife said. "I'll clean. You make better omelets."
By now, the lawn was calling. Matt and Adam helped. We trimmed, edged and
mowed - front and back. Not too taxing - besides, working with the boys was fun.
Adam had forgotten one of his chores - emptying the tank in the portable
dehumidifier in the basement - so I gave a gentle reminder. He returned with a
Father's Day flash: "Dad, there's water everywhere."
Water was not everywhere, nor did it come from a malfunctioning
dehumidifier tank. Instead, it was dripping steadily from above, near the
first-floor laundry room. Out came a shop- style vacuum and a mop. We picked up
the water in the unfinished basement, then began searching for the leak.
The leak was coming from the expansion tank on the water heater, which is
in the furnace room adjacent to the laundry room. The heater's safety mechanism
had corroded, and water had saturated the floor, which is lined with concrete
board. The sponge-like board soaked up water - and now it was dripping slowly
to the basement floor below.
Nearly 1 o'clock now, and my wife was off to pick up Allyson at the bagel
store. I attended to the corroded expansion tank. Luckily, the nearby home
center had a replacement. Fifty dollars and 40 minutes later, I had a new tank
installed.
Time to relax, you'd think, with a dip in the pool and a cold pop or two.
(Brewskis, OK? It's my day, remember.) But some leaves and debris had settled
on the pool floor, so I decided to vacuum. I figured the automatic pool cleaner
that's supposed to replace this chore was wishing me happy Father's Day. After
making the pool appealing to swimmers everywhere, it was, amazingly, close to
3 o'clock.
The boys were hungry. Quesadillas on the grill. I make them with pepper
jack cheese and tortillas brushed lightly with olive oil. Very good with a cold
one.
While tidying up around the grill, I noticed that several flowering trees
near the house were out of control. And four tomato plants were still looking
for a home in the garden. Some tree branches I'd trimmed and bundled earlier in
the week were waiting at the curb for pick up the next day. Adding to the
bundles and taking care of my tomatoes - what's the harm?
Then once again, I heard the cry of a hungry teen: "Dad, what's for
dinner?" Allyson, who is prom-conscious and watching her weight, wants a
low-fat, high-protein meal. As I bundled branches, I recited the special of the
day - chicken, drumsticks and breasts, bathed in a citrus marinade. Lucky for
me, that met her approval.
Then, finally, a break, a moment to relax. The Mets are playing my hometown
team, the Tigers. I can catch the last inning or so on TV. No happiness here.
The Mets are ahead, 6-1, and about to complete a three-game weekend sweep.
After the game, my two oldest - Al, 21, and Melissa, 18 - returned from
their part-time jobs. They're hungry. So are their brothers - again. What's a
dad to do? The chicken goes on the grill. It cooks slowly, as I lightly brush
the marinade, which I've heated to create a sauce, onto the sizzling meat.
Emeril's way overrated, I think. There's rice pilaf, spinach salad and
watermelon slices prepared by the kids and their mom.
As I tend the chicken and grill corn, I'm surprised with cards from my
children and another from my wife. Hallmark sentiments often escape me, but
this time, all the words in the cards seem to fit.
We eat outdoors near the pool, and the kids needle Allyson about the prom.
The boys think it's stupid, and Melissa is much too mature for such high school
outings. My wife watches, listens and smiles. Our kids actually clear the
table. I get a kiss on the cheek and a hug from each of them, and a warm
embrace from my wife. In that brief moment, I regret my violent intentions
toward Sonora Smart Dodd.
But then, Melissa asks if I have time to put up the ceiling fan in her
bedroom.
E-mail gary.dymski@ newsday.com.
