By Bill Barth
For people like me Father’s Day is a reminder of great loss. Our fathers have passed.
Same for Mother’s Day because our moms, too, have left this earth.
In our older years the world might say we have become orphans. Fatherless. Motherless.
But that is not true.
Good parents live on, in us.
The strong hands and gentle arms that guided us as children are still there in a presence we feel deeply every day, reflected in the values we hold and the courage that sees us through dark days.
In the faint voice at the back of our minds that whispers the difference between right and wrong, and presses us to choose wisely.
As a farm kid I had the great good fortune, from the time I was old enough to lift a tool, to work alongside not only my Dad but also my Papaw. Some might say they were hard men and that would not be inaccurate. Scratching a living from the soil is not for the weak and timid of heart or hand.
From one year to the next the future is never guaranteed, subject to forces beyond control no matter how hard a farmer labors – weather swings, the cost of seed and fuel and fertilizer, prices for crops and livestock set not by producers but by traders at big-city exchanges.
Yet the men who raised me rose before dawn every day in an act of faith that there was dignity and promise in honest work. It would be wrong to say they never complained. Any gathering of farmers included rants about bad weather or trade speculators or bankers. The word “quit,” though, was not in their vocabulary. Next day, the rising sun would find them back in the barnlot.
As a boy just big enough to help I remember the process of prying my sleepy body out of a snug bed. First, Dad would pull down the covers and shake my shoulder. “Time to get up,” he’d say. That was the only warning. If I lingered and fell back asleep, a splash of cold water in the face came next.
The days could be long and the work was hard. Many years later more than a few of my newspaper colleagues heard a piece of Dad’s philosophy if they asked me about quitting time. “When we’re done,” I’d say, amused by the memory.
There were times when the guidance of these tough men seemed overbearing and harsh to a boy. Much was expected. Failure to deliver had consequences. But there was understanding, too, when you had done your best and still fallen short. With a pat on the back or an encouraging word, “You’ll get it next time.”
Dad and Papaw knew what I had yet to learn. The world doesn’t care about you. A person succeeds or fails by their own effort. It takes grit and determination to accomplish anything.
When times have been difficult – we all have those days, those years – I can literally feel generations of strong men standing behind me, stiffening my backbone. Their voices are imprinted at a cellular level. Work harder. Accept challenges. Do right and stand up for your beliefs. Quitters never win but failure isn’t the end. “You’ll get it next time.”
So, no, I am not fatherless. I am not motherless.
I’ve been blessed to have had parents who worked and sacrificed and prayed for their children to have better lives than they did. They didn’t measure lives by the size of one’s wallet or job title. For them, the measure of a man or woman rose or fell on whether paying it forward defeated the temptations of self and greed.
The legacy of family – good or not so good – passes from one generation to the next. The best parents instinctively know the best gift they can give their offspring is the ability to carry values and responsibility.
With the approach of Father’s Day, and having reached a certain age, the occasion brings reflection. It’s remembering what Dad and Papaw entrusted to me. It’s the thrill of seeing one’s own children become parents themselves, and watching them do the little things every day to mold those boys and girls who will inherit family traditions.
It’s the joy of babysitting the little grandkids, curled in close under outstretched arms, tiny reminders of my now-grown children who were once so wonderfully small and innocent.
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are manufactured dates on a calendar, meaningless as a drifting breeze. Your family story is what matters and it’s being written in the everyday moments, not in Hallmark cards.
Compose it with care and purpose.
Bill Barth is the former Editor of the Beloit Daily News, and a member of the Wisconsin Newspaper Hall of Fame. Write to him at bbarth@beloitdailynews.com.
