THE DAD ZONE

Nothing Irish in how we observe March 17

(March. 19, 2008, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette)

By Stephen Caldwell

  Did you celebrate Monday?

    It was a date of historic significance, so perhaps you celebrated for the traditional reasons — the anniversary of St. Patrick’s death in 461 (or 493, depending on the source).

    There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but our family celebrates for our own reasons. In my family, March 17 represents birth and death — the circle of life, so to speak. It includes a piece of our heritage and a slice of our future.

    Monday marked the birth of our son-in-law, so we celebrate that God brought him into this world and led him into the arms and heart of our daughter.

    My wife is a big fan of our son-inlaw, but not his birthday. When we play games as a family, we use the “Whose birthday is next?” question to decide who gets to go first. Since my wife’s birthday falls on March 18, she seldom gets to go first in any game in which he’s also playing.

    In addition to our son-in-law, by the way, March 17 is the birth date of golfer Bobby Jones (1902), actor Kurt Russell (1952), musician Nat “King” Cole (1919) and soccer player Mia Hamm (1973), among many others.

    It also was the day that Franklin Roosevelt married Eleanor (1905), that the National Gallery of Art opened in Washington (1941), that Golda Meir became prime minister of Israel (1969) and that actress Helen Hayes died at age 92 (1993).

    Life and death and living: They happen every day to someone, somewhere. They aren’t exclusive to us, but sometimes they are personal. Sometimes life is breathed into someone who will become close to us; sometimes it’s taken from them.

    My dad, Marvin Caldwell, was 56 when he died March 17, 1983, which means he’d be 81 if he still were around today.

    About this time 25 years ago, a 19-year-old man/boy sat in the backyard of his parents’ home cursing God for allowing his father to die so young. Did God fail to understand how important my father was to me, how much I needed him then, how much I’d need him in the months and years to come?

    He knew, of course.

    With each year, it’s easier to celebrate the heritage my father represents — the wonderful qualities he had that, on my best days, sometimes come through in me.

    People talk about the “father wound” that all men have, but I struggle to see mine. My father wasn’t perfect, and I could make a list of his faults. But most of my wounds are self-inflicted and always have been.

    I tend to picture my dad as an ocean liner — steady even in rough seas and with many of his most important assets hidden beneath the waterline.

    Those traits are the parts of him that never left me, that God somehow mystically allowed to speak to me over 25 years each time they were needed most. He allowed my father to die way too early for my liking, but he didn’t take him from me.

    That’s the heritage we celebrate.
 

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