One thing that fathers sometimes do better (or worse) than mothers is to arbitrate, or be the arbitrary decision maker in the group, which we might assume is a family, since we mentioned “father” in that analysis. My father, Duane Cyril Redfield, is now 86 years of age. He entered this fine world by executing his perfect and natural escape from his own mother, who had him, his placenta, and the umbilicus connecting them, hidden inside something like a water balloon. Water ballon tossing is lots of fun. But that is irrelevant. Having babies is anything but fun. The process of starting one is fun, especially for the man, or the father, as the case may turn out to be or not to be (that *is* the question, after all), who enjoyed his role in the process of baby-making. That is what love-making is (sometimes) often called: making babies.
That’s what those Russian immigrants always called it — Bill, who was the only English speaker, his uncle and grandfather — who worked as the second crew during the summers of ’67 and ’68 when I and my future ex-brother-in-law (neither of us was married yet) Keith made our fortune working the irrigation lines on the field of lilies run by contract from Oregon Bulb Farms, Inc., near St. Paul, Oregon, where the farmer who was leasing the land to the corporation had this very attractive brunette for a daughter who loved to put on her bikini and go sunbathing where we could just feast our eyes, while we sweated in the sun for an amazing, stupendous, unbelievable $1.35/hr. I could not figure out what to do with all my money (after I recovered from heatstroke), so I spent it having fun. I wonder what happened to all my fun? Did I spend it, without replacing it? Now *that* was really stupid.
Sorry about my foolishness, Dad, but you know, I really love you, maybe even more than I loved Mom. That sounds unexpected, probably, since we all know how much I miss her, and you do too, but that’s not the point. She’s not “here” now, so it won’t “hurt” her to know the truth: I tried harder to be like you, because I knew I was less like you than you wanted me to be. It’s almost reversed, isn’t it? I tried, I really did. I still do! And you (my own father) will not see this. You really loathe this monster called the Internet, and I, myself, am beginning to see it! I might have to join you in that sentiment, and find something productive to do with my life, finally, for once and all. From what I can tell now, the Internet has become the monster that you described, years ago.
So Happy Birthday, DUANE, whoever you may be other than my own father. Even if it is really your un-birthday! Very, merry, ONE!