On the Day of My Father's Birthday
and on taking pleasure in one's work
My dad would be 92 today. He passed away just before Christmas four years ago. He was a masterful carpenter, and a father who believed in showing his love more than in telling it. “Showing” frequently took the form of building, fixing, and renovating.
Earlier today I was having an online conversation with one of the Unschool subscribers, Terry Freedman, and he mentioned how he likes—at times—to look at his physical books on his shelf, and how that might be “narcissistic.” We were discussing publishing e-books versus physical books. I don’t think it has anything to do with narcissism.
Being February 4th, my dad came to mind, and his work. The above photo was taken after he’d gutted our ageing kitchen, with all its uneven studs and joists; he was making custom cabinets from pine boards. He and I went together to find the perfect boards, and I remember him holding them, feeling edges, noting knots. Here, he’s doing something he often did while mentally working through a project: jotting some calculation or reminder with his carpenter’s pencil. I still have a piece of wood with one such hand-written note.
After that kitchen was complete, with its beautiful stained-golden cabinets, the wood-trimmed edging to the counter tops—oak, no less—the black hand-crafted iron handles on the doors, every detail seen to, I would notice my dad pause at some point in every visit to my house, tea mug in hand, and look. His eyes would go over the whole, slowly, taking pleasure in his work. There’s a healthy type of pride in a job thoughtfully executed. It’s good to acknowledge “I’ve given this my best.”
Recently I published a post about the physical manifestation of rejection—without really thinking about this counterpart. The pleasure in having built a Thing.
I have writing days that make me hungry for physicality, to hold something in my hands at the end of my day. I enjoy a day of painting a room for this reason—to feel tired limbs and to see the change. Maybe this is my tradespeople-background; in spite of the surprisingly physical exhaustion that I often feel at the end of a writing day, it can still feel to be missing this piece.
Years can pass between those moments of opening a box of ten or twenty first-print-run books that show up at my door. It’s been four years for me at this point since the last, and I’m hungry. Some of you have never felt that, and are steadily working towards it… I know! Others, with e-publishing, might never have one of those moments (and I think about, and hope, that perhaps creating a cover, seeing reviews, having a personal email from a reader thanking you for the story might be solid stand-ins for this).
In this age of digital-everything, let your mind ponder what you have actually created when you write, even if it is not yet a book, or ever will be. It is a story. It fits into readers’ minds and hearts, lodges into their gut even.
Then life goes on and your counter looks like its usual mess and the stove needs to be cleaned up again.
But for a moment, stop and think, “I created this.”
Happy birthday, Dad!
With thanks to Terry Freedman for our discussion about e-publishing and print. Check out his newsletter (and this piece on his father)—
This was a lovely piece, Alison. It made me think of my own dad. I lost my dad many years ago. He was a hard rock miner and one of the gentlest men I have known. He was a big man, with a barrel chest, rough working man’s hands and bear-like arms that he would wrap us kids in, making everything seem like it would be ok. His convictions about kindness and lending a hand to those in need ran deep. I remember the frequency with which he brought home out-of work men down on their luck. We kids grumbled about being doubled up to make room for the new addition, but never in my father’s hearing. If there was a hungry mouth, an extra place was set at the table and we shared whatever it was we had. I remember being woken up from a sound sleep one night to sobbing. Bleary-eyed, I wandered down the hall and peered into the kitchen to find my dad and my mother comforting a bloody and battered wife of one of the guys my dad worked with. A few minutes later, the woman’s husband arrived yelling obscenities and banging on the door. My mother stayed withe woman and my dad got up to open the door. I had never seen him so angry. He opened the door but blocked it with his body. I couldn’t see his face, but the woman’s husband stopped mid-sentence. My father’s voice was to low too hear. But the tone was clear. “Don’t you ever do this again, or you’ll be answering to me.” When my dad stepped back to close the door, the man tried to slip in. My father closed the door in his face. That’s when he saw me, and his expression shifted a seething anger that frightened me to the tired end of the day smile. He sent me to sleep with my sister. My bed would be needed.
Hadn’t thought about that for years. Thank you.
Thank you for sharing this. My dad was a carpenter, too, and loved cabinetry. He passed away last month, and I'm still coming to terms with it. Reading this helped some.