No, that isn’t a typo. I’m aware of all the hype flying around about that other vintage sci fi series and its hot-shot new movie, but right now I couldn’t care less. Why? Because I just enjoyed one of the wonderful little moments that we fathers born in the early seventies can cherish: I just sat down and watched the original Star Wars (Episode IV) with my young son for the first time.
The E Train went by underground, shaking the floor, the glasses on the bar. The kid standing next to me looked startled. “When I was a kid the Santa Fe freights used to wake me up,” the kid said. He seemed lost and kind of lowdown when he said it. We were strangers, standing at […]
My husband is a good man. He has good values, a kind heart and he is very hard working. He is an exceptionally good father. From the moment he held our children — and even before that — I knew they would always be safe with him.
As luck would have it, the 50th year anniversary of Harper Lee’s sole, yet widely read, novel To Kill A Mockingbird dovetailed nicely with Father’s Day this year. I say luckily because even when I first read this book as a 16 year old, I knew that in reading about one of the central characters, a taciturn and principled Southern lawyer who takes an impossible, unwinnable case — was more than just a character. Atticus Finch was a colossus, with a humility that belies his true strength. And most importantly, he was a dedicated father.
While cleaning out his garage a son finds his father’s obituary, which takes him back to the tragic circumstances of his dad’s death and stirs up the past.
I grew up in the 60s and 70s. My parents were pretty much hippies, flower power, tie-dyed, peace loving boaters. We lived mostly on a series of boats in the heart of Vancouver in Coal Harbour, nestled into a corner of Stanley Park. As I look back, it seems my childhood was always summer. Guess that’s a variation on rose tinted glasses.
Mike Sakasegawa comments on the recent scandal at the Landon School — where a group of freshman boys drafted unsuspecting girls into participating into a sex for points contest — and ponders the question of how to raise our sons right.
On Father’s Day, a woman contemplates the fathers she has known and never known, and how she came to the conclusion that men leave.
“Any man’s death diminishes me,” he once intoned, quoting Donne, “because I am involved in mankind.” It made me sad enough to cry, but I didn’t. Instead, I considered how the recent death of a friend had wounded me like a splinter, one that I could not remove. The more I fussed to pull at it, the deeper it settled in my skin and the more irritated the flesh around it grew.
I’ve never disliked Irishmen. In fact, being a born Newfoundlander, the lilting accent and ruddy-faced smiles of Dublin make me feel more at home than I usually do on the North American mainland. There is one Irishman, however, towards whom I’ve recently developed a decided antipathy. His name is Murphy. You know, the one whose […]