Started a post yesterday about Father’s Day, but was interrupted by…a father: my younger son. I am so proud of my sons for the kinds of fathers they’ve become, so thoughtful, and loving. My own father, dead for 35 years, was a good and thoroughly nice man, but most fathers played only a minor role in their children’s lives back then, especially their daughters.
It seems odd that I don’t have clearer memories of someone I loved so deeply, but watching my sons with their children, I’ve realized my father didn’t actually spend much time with me, and when he did…well, let’s just say that being told you “throw a ball like a girl” leaves you in an impossible position. I mean, I was a girl, so who else was I supposed to throw a ball like? Clearly, like my brother.But I wasn’t actually supposed to be like my brother. Tomboys were bad, dainty and graceful were good. The message I received was that I wasn’t supposed to be throwing balls at all. So complicated and confusing, all those messages. I wish I could say it’s not like that any more.
I am reliably informed (I suppose the Washington Post is a reliable source?) that today’s solstice coincides with a full moon tonight known as a “strawberry moon,” so named by the Algonquins because of the moon’s color when it’s low in the sky and seen through summer haze. This conjunction of the solstice with a strawberry moon last happened in 1967, according to the Post. So why don’t I remember it? Surely living in the Haight-Ashbury during the Summer of Love someone would have mentioned the strawberry moon? We were into these portents. Or were we all too stoned to notice? Very perplexing. Anyway, I’m not going to miss it a second time. Two hours after sunset, I will be out there in the street looking for the biggest strawberry of them all.
And I won’t be stoned.