> [Was irrationally twigged out at a Father's day op-ed where the man
> condemns modern fathers working long hours to make more. Yes, well,
> clearly he's bought into the 50s fantasy family, and forgotten that,
> still within human memory, "quality time with Dad" was seeding behind
the
> plow. Very few choose unnatural overtime -- and it tends NOT to be for
> avarice, but to nominally keep afloat.  But then, details muddy up
even
> the most elegant of arguments....]

My biological father refused to work over-time. No, it was not to spend
time with us, he didn't like us, hadn't wanted us, and didn't want any
sight or sound of us around him. He had hobbies to attend to, friends to
play with, radio shows to listen to, newspapers and books to read. We
were to be at the table, clean and silent, when we were called, we were
not to say one word at the table, we were to eat everything put in front
of us without comment (he kept a strap close to hand so he didn't have
to take the time to take his belt off if one of us spoke or couldn't
swallow my mother's appalling cooking - though he was just as likely to
kick us under the table for wriggling or crying - steel toed boots, we
all have scars), we were to ask permission to leave when our plates were
clean, then we were to clear the table, do the dishes (silently) and
vanish until bedtime. Then we were to be presented, clean and ready for
bed, to wish goodnight to our parents, and to go to bed when told
without a word, and not to be heard from or seen again until morning.

>From a missive I wrote on a completely different subject...

"Americans have always had the tendency to look back in fondness at
things
which never existed. Ward and June Cleaver were never representative of
the
Great American Family..."

My dad worked like a slave his whole life, and largely so we could keep
afloat. "Quality time" ? What the hell is that? If we wanted to spend
time
with dad (and we did) we went on the job. Fortunately we could. But dad
coming home at 5pm, reading the paper, getting in a game of catch in the
yard... what? Huh? And I distinctly remember no one else had a dad who
did
any different.

My first and second foster fathers were farmers. We had quality time
together after school with them, alright - with them we brought the cows
in, milked the cows, fed the calves, pigs, poultry, cleaned the milking
shed, drove the cows to the night paddock, fed them if necessary, and
did homework.

Harry Campbell was a mechanic/carpenter, and dinner had to be on the
table when he got home from work, tired, sweaty. He'd shower and change,
have dinner, read the paper while we kids did the dishes, then he *did*
throw a ball around the yard with us on the evenings when it was light
late enough - provided we had our homework done. He also was an
appalling card shark on dark, cold, or rainy evenings. He also spent his
evenings teaching us to drive, making us help him in the yard, and
telling his friends that he didn't know how he'd been so lucky as to
have such great kids.

> and in a perfectly "normal" twist on Father's Day (when I was unable
to
call) Dad would have been unable to get the call because he was out
whacking
down the waist-high weeds on a few acres around the house, tearing the
remaining (rotted) shingles off the last part of the roof to be done,
hauling debris to the dumpster, sawing off dead limbs on trees... etc
etc.
Rest just because it's Father's Day? What? Huh?

I had to phone my ex late in the evening because he spent all of his
father's day working in his garden. He'd left his cell phone in the
house because it kept ringing and interrupting him (his kids were trying
to call him to wish him a happy father's day) Likewise my sons were all
busy, with houses, yards, spouses and kids. But I did manage to get a
hold of everyone and tell them they were great dads.

Laurie nearly forgot it bad Phoenix 


--- Rachel's Little NET2FIDO Gate v 0.9.9.8 Alpha