Father’s Day, 2015. I expect gifts. I expect a homemade card with a crudely drawn heart on it, a tall figure drawn in crayon holding the hand of a significantly shorter figure, the taller figure will likely be holding a tiny figure, all of them decorated with huge garish smiles. I will love these gifts, I’ll treasure them. I quietly and proudly celebrate the fact that my daughter draws pictures of her family with smiles. Maybe I’m not completely screwing this gig up!
This is my fifth Father’s Day, it’s my Dad’s 40th Father’s Day. Dad–he is an incredible man. He is busy, he is productive, he has an active body and an active mind. He taught me a healthy work ethic. He taught me how to be honorable, dedicated and compassionate, he taught me that there is truly only right and wrong, and if I begin justifying things, start trying to blur up the lines, to “take a step back and look at things again—with a bit more honesty”.
Reflecting on my childhood memories, Fatherhood didn’t come naturally to him. His intense personality hinted at his temper (one of many traits I picked up from him), it could be upsetting to see it when it happened, but it ended as quickly as it began.
That’s fine, if I wanted a perfect Dad, I would find myself without a Dad—perfect Dads simply don’t exist. He might have stumbled a couple times when he started out as a Father, but he’s got the Grandfather thing nailed! It’s pure joy watching my Dad being a Grandpa.
A man is a lot more than a handful of moments, so it wouldn’t be fair to only mention his intensity and his temper. I had a great childhood, and I should mention a couple of the more joyful moments. I remember wearing a bulky orange life preserver and a blue hoodie. I remember sitting on his lap on a boat, he was helping me hold onto my cane pole. He was trying–trying to teach me how to keep an eye on the bobber. I was more taken with being on a boat, waving to Mom at the other end of the boat and asking about every, single, thing, I saw and heard.
It takes patience to fish, it takes patience to be a parent.

I was about five years old, playing in our backyard. Dad stepped out and called me in for supper. I turned to face him, our eyes locked. I pawed the ground, like a bull in an arena. Dad picked up on the cue and squared up his footing. I broke into a run, I swear, I had never before run faster. At the last second, I veered, to avoid him. Just as I was about to celebrate my brilliant escape, bear-paw hands wrapped around my tiny torso, rock hard forearms flexed and I was lifted off the ground, feet still kicking. I remember the world spinning, laughter and the next thing I knew, my chin was resting contentedly on his shoulder, as he carried me into the kitchen for Mom’s smoked sausage and peas.
I look back on those years with my adult eyes. He provided a pretty comfortable life for me. He worked so many jobs when I was a little guy. His talents were recognized, he accepted some job offers and eventually he traded in his plastic name tag for a necktie. Long hours running a Deli became long hours on airplanes and in hotels. He was, still is, such a hard worker. He earned everything he attained, he is self-made.
My Dad can do nearly everything. He can fix a toilet as easily as replace a water heater, he can trim trees, and replace his gutters and he can still make time to listen to whatever it is going on in my life. He is still able to offer incredible advice.
He’s a Fisherman, an Angler. It seems to be a trait among McGrath men, we need to be near water. We need the scent of a freshwater lake, we need the sound of lazy green waves cresting over themselves. I wonder what my Dad, my twenty-something year old Dad would have said if he was told that he would someday live on a lake, a dream attained by a self-made man.
My Dad has always been strong and healthy, he’s tenacious, he’s a fighter. He is indestructible. Or . . .is he indestructible?
Despite still possessing a vivacious spirit that more often than not, leaves me feeling exhausted, I’m starting to notice things: a couple of new lines on his face, a hint in his expression indicating that he may rather take a nap right now. He doesn’t march as intensely as he used to, he takes pauses these days, to stretch, to rub his eyes, or to just take it easy for a second.
All of a sudden I’m starting to see the first hints of what he may look like as an old man. My indestructible invincible Dad, one of the strongest most immortal men I will ever know, is beginning to show hints of mortality;
and he is becoming desperately precious to me.
I’m becoming far more conscious of my time with him. I’m beginning to think about the things I want to say to him, I’m starting to think about the things I still wish to learn from him. I am finding myself making quiet vows to genuinely enjoy my time with him.
I’m beginning to realize that someday, I will see the Father’s Day Card section, and I will walk past it.
So . . .
Dad, you mean so much to me; you mean everything to me. I’m now married, I now have children of my own, and I now realize how much of your life was dedicated to worrying about me and praying for me. Thank you. Thank You . . .thank you.
So Dad, want to go fishing?