Hello and Happy Sunday.
Today is Father’s Day here in the States and several other places so I thought I’d take this time to honor my fathers. A. Bronson Alcott, the Transcendentalist philosopher, was my dad during my biped iteration. MAD, the displaced Cubs fan, is now. I have to say, as far as dads go, I hit the jackpot both times around.
Father’s Day wasn’t founded until 1910, and then in Spokane, Washington. A. Bronson and I were long dead by then on the opposite coast, so I never got to fully wish him “Happy Father’s Day.”
This is my first I hope of MANY Father’s Days with MAD. I am so appreciative of him taking me in and making me part of his family, that I want to wish him, too, a very special Father’s Day. When he wakes up (It must have been some Block Party last night!) I’ll let him curl up next to me while we watch the Cubs take on the Mets. (As a native New Yorker, I was a Mets fan, but MAD has converted me into a Cubs fan.)
Let’s start with some comparisons of my two dear old dads.
Both of my dads are tall and very handsome (are they ever!)
OK, this may be where the similarities end.
MAD is a diehard Cubs fan, and A. Bronson never really got into baseball, even though it was popular in his time. He preferred batting around philosophical ideas instead. If he were to be a fan, I’m guessing he’d like the Red Sox because he was born in upstate Connecticut and spent most of his life in Massachusetts.
As for philosophy, MAD respects it, but he’s a “nothing-but-the-facts” kind of guy.
While both dads love their children unconditionally, A. Bronson wasn’t around much. He thought nothing of leaving Marmee home alone for months at a time with four children and no money to support them.
He thought even less of farming us daughters and Marmee out as housekeepers, laundresses and governesses so we could keep the family afloat while he wandered about with his profitless philosophies.
That’s OK, though. I could say we were all better for it, but that’s a tired expression in my opinion and never really justifies anything. Despite A. Bronson’s faults, we all loved him for who he was.
As for fathering, he thought he was doing the right thing, and in his own special way, maybe he was. Plus, it is through him that we have the awesome Alcatt surname. So, a posthumous thank you and “Happy Father’s Day” to you, daddy!
MAD has only been my dad for about six months, when WHDH brought me up from the dark back alleys and animal shelters of Brooklyn. I have to say things are working out quite well. He has a pretty good job so he does not expect me to go out and get one. I am not expected to do any of the housework, though I think MAD would appreciate it if I’d learn how to clean my litter box.
Like with A. Bronson, I’m MAD’s second daughter. WHDH gets first honors and we have a brother, GD, in between. I’ve never had a brother before but I think this is going to work out well. Even though it’s only been six months, GD has not exhibited any of those “middle child” annoyances like whining nonstop about feeling left out and neglected. No, he seems well balanced and he always holds me when he visits.
MAD is mad about his kids. My publicist learned that when she (wisely) agreed to a third date with him. He sent her an email with links to photo albums with hundreds of photos of WHDH and GD from birth to present day. She loved every one of the photos and she especially loved how much MAD adores his children. Now his links include photos of me, too!
This makes me two for two in the Dad department and I couldn’t be happier for it.