In my religion, we teach that families were organized in the pre-existence and that we had some say in that organization. I'm certain, knowing me, that if I did have a say I carefully chose my parents, both of whom are well deserving of at least one day of celebration a year--today I devote this piece to my dad.
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| The Larsen Family Circa 1968 |
When I try to focus on specific memories with my father that are indicative of the kind of father he is and the depth of our bond, the specifics are blurred. Instead I am drawn to a general but overwhelming feeling of love, support, tenderness, and trust. I have always known I was the favorite child--the fact each of my siblings makes the same claim is indicative of the kind of father he is.
(I'm still working on a transition here, so just throw one in!)
One summer not long after Mitch and I married, we took a family trip to visit relatives in St. George. My dad and his brothers grew up on a farm and share a passion for horses. My uncle has a small horse ranch and he decided to take us on a family ride. Now, I don't like horses much; I didn't ever inherit or absorb the passion my dad and his brothers share. Perhaps that is a result of a throw we took when we were small: both of my sisters and I were riding with my father when the horse was spooked and before we knew it, we hit the ground hard, despite my father's attempts to somehow catch all three of us and soften the fall. I also knew that his attempt to protect us had actually prevented him from protecting himself as I watched him mask pain the next few days. I have been afraid of horses since that day. Consequently, I wasn't all that excited about my uncle announcing a family ride. However, I also struggle a bit with pride. I refused to voice my trepidation and somehow admit weakness or incompetence, so I jumped on a horse behind my husband (and behind the saddle).
Things were going fine until we headed up a hill. The horse we were on decided to pick up his pace and trot. The gait was bouncy enough that I was soon struggling to stay astride. Since I was seated essentially bareback behind the saddle (the widest part of the horse), I had no stirrups nor saddle horn to brace myself, so my only recourse was to wrap my arms around Mitch and hold on for dear life. Each time I came down on the horse, he took what felt like a leap and I was thrown back into the air. By the time we reached the top, my arms were wrapped around Mitch, my belly was flush against the horse's rump, and my legs were flailing behind the horse in sync with its bouncing tail. It seemed that the harder I held on, the harder the horse tried to rid himself of whatever it was bouncing up and down on his hindquarters. Needless to say, I was terrified. When we came to a stop, my uncle asked if I was alright. I sheepishly replied that I wanted to switch horses and ride with my dad.
It is, perhaps, the biggest insult I have ever hurled at my husband, but also indicative of the trust I have in my father. I'm nearly 50 years old and still when I need support, I turn to my dad; when I need praise, I call my dad; when I need advice, I ask my dad. While I'm always grateful for my dad, Father's Day gives me a little extra push to express it, a little reminder to pause and reflect.
To celebrate this year, I plan to tell my dad how much he means to me. Afterwards, I also plan to ask for a bit of advice.
Written Father's Day 2015
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