Tired of the Days with capital Ds

We had Father’s Day in our backyard. Four fathers present: Sherry’s dad, her brother, a friend of the family and me. I don’t like Father’s Day. Or Mother’s Day. Or the other Days that require compulsory cards and gifts and good times for all, no matter what. Good especially for the merchants who sell cards and gifts.

If all this sounds cynical, consider that I’m sitting in my office looking out at a yard full of plastic chairs, an overflowing bag of trash, a couple of very wet tablecloths from the sprinklers kicking in and a memory of a gas grill that refused to work, requiring a magnificent tri-tip to be consigned to the oven in our kitchen while I fussed over the grill. The day-after-blues.

Actually, it was a fine time. Gifts and cards were exchanged. Stories were told. We finally got the grill going ? too late, unfortunately, for the poker game we had planned earlier in the day. Everybody hugged, and after they left, we had a rare chance to talk with my stepson, Erik, who had been with his father and came home as our party ended.

I opened a card from my Colorado daughter, Debby, and found a gift that illuminated the day. She told me that she had given up buying me books that I don’t read and clothes that I don’t wear, and her gift to me was that she would spend the entire Father’s Day reading a novel that I am now floating to agents of which she’s had a copy since Christmas and hasn’t yet read. She called me at midday to tell me what chapter she was on and to ask some questions that made it clear she is really reading the book. Best present she could offer.

On Wednesday, my other daughter, Patt, was to have me and my family to a late Father’s Day dinner. I don’t know at this writing what my gift will be ? actually, the dinner is more than enough ? but Patt is always creative about such matters and happily irreverent. I look forward to that.

So, OK, yes, Father’s Day in our backyard was a good and satisfying event and doesn’t deserve the sour note with which I started this piece.

But, yes it does. I know I’ll catch hell for this, but it’s an ersatz event that commercializes emotions about fathers. I prefer to look at it as a sort of warm-up for the Fourth of July, which is a real holiday. And also my birthday.