It happens this way …
Happy Father’s Day to all our dads –– here and gone. Mine died in 1998 at the age of 80 after quadruple by-pass surgery. John Martin was a quiet man who loved the NY Yankees, the Dallas Cowboys, my mother/his best friend, 
and my two brothers and me. After back surgery sidelined him from a blue collar job that paid comparatively well, he went to work for an international pipe line company and worked his way up to became their Credit Manager. That meant this shy introvert had to deal with 300 clients –– keeping track of them by hand in this pre-computer age –– urging them to pay their bills. When he arrived home at 5:15 p.m. every evening, we’d ask him how his day went. All he’d ever say was “busy.”
He hated this white collar job that caused him so much stress, but he did it. Since my mother had to go to work –– night shifts on factory assembly lines –– to supplement his lower income, my dad helped with house cleaning, made sure we did our homework, and attended Parent/Teacher conferences. He was a master of corny jokes, called us kids “my three sons,” and dubbed me his “poet champ.” He taught us that life was filled with challenges that we could meet head on. That lesson served us well. Dad, you would be proud of your kids, grandkids, and your best friend who’s still as feisty as ever at 97!
So Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Here’s one for you.
To Each Her Saint
Canonize? The prize
for two miracles.
Not much to ask,
considering.
Someone walks upright,
banishes unruly cells,
faces off
the voices in her head,
stops a river’s rise:
triumphs claimed
in an almost-saint’s name.
For those of us
who dismiss titles
and candles lit
on flowered altars
in a namesake church,
we elect
to venerate a dad
stacking barrels
of paint for years
on the merciless concrete
of a factory floor.
