Now that my father is in his ninth decade, my sister and I try to show a little more attentiveness (translation: respect) whenever my Dad mentions his Father’s Day hammock, but in the past, since we have heard the story so many times, we have fallen into the bad habit of rolling our eyes, scrunching up our noses or crinkling our eyes in a gentle form of silent ribbing. Our father, as he likes to remind us, has never ever not once ever lain in the hammock that we gave him one Father’s Day many years ago.
I remember when my dad assembled the infamous hammock in the back yard, perfectly centered in the shade of our tallest crabapple tree. It came with an optional frame so that it could be hung in the traditional manner between two objects or on the frame itself so that it could be moved around like a lawn chair. And afterwards I remember spending many lazy summer days of book reading or cloud shape guessing in the hammock. My sister would take tanning breaks, lying in its comforting folds, swinging gently from side to side. Even mother would take a break—albeit a quick one as though she didn’t want to be caught slacking—from hanging the wash or weeding her favorite flower bed. What I don’t remember is my dad ever taking the hammock for a spin.
I must confess though, I do find it hard to believe that after he had spent the time putting it together, that he didn’t sit in it, lie back, test it out, just once to make sure that it wouldn’t collapse in a spectacular heap when one of his precious daughters was using it. But knowing my dad, the claim that he never used the hammock could be entirely true.
There’s a good reason that I am unable to visualize our dad in the hammock. For my father, the backyard was not a place to relax; for it to be the haven it was for the rest of us, for my dad it was a place of work. When he wasn’t mowing the lawn, he was trimming trees or planting flowers or working on some current project, like the summer he repainted the patio furniture. It seemed that he was always busy doing something: potting plants in the garage at his workbench, fixing something (toasters, bikes, the family car) or painting—indoor and out. Even when we were relaxing on the patio as a family, it was dad who fired up the barbecue, dad who cooked the burgers and dad who cleaned the grill.
My sister and I have heard my father tell the story of how he received a hammock for a present one Father’s Day that he never got to use so many times that I think we missed the point. We made funny faces while he told the story because we thought he was guilt-tripping us. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe he was bragging—the beautiful place my sister and I grew up and felt safe in was the direct result of his constant planning, vigilance and effort.
There is a saying that “A woman’s work is never done.” But I don’t think a dad’s is ever done either.
Happy Father’s Day from all of us at Cymax Stores.
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