When you get older, holidays are bittersweet. Christmas, birthdays, Thanksgiving…they’re wonderful times to be together with your loved ones. You’ll talk about old family stories and make new ones. You’ll bounce babies on your knee, bring out time tested recipes and feel that wonderful contentment that I’ve found only comes when you’re surrounded by family.
Here’s where the bittersweet comes in. As you get older, you find yourself being the one to tell all the old family stories. You’ll find yourself reminiscing about old Uncle Jack or Grandpa George. The love and joy of family reunions doesn’t fade, but you start to feel the absence of those ones who used to tell you the stories before you were the keeper of family legend. Of course, life is bittersweet, and that is so often what makes it beautiful.
This past Sunday our children and grandchildren filled our home with laughter. My husband, while not a social butterfly in public, is the life of the party at family gatherings. He received some nice gifts—a new toolbox, a fishing pole—but I know the best and only gift that really mattered was his family, happy, healthy, and laughing together. I had a fantastic time, and I found myself thinking about my dad, telling stories about the man who raised me.
When my dad retired, we had a party. He did not want one. He wanted to retire quietly. One morning he’d go to work and the next he would not. That’s how he wanted it, but we’re a stubborn bunch, so we had a party anyways. We’re a big family, and cousins, aunts and uncles are just as close as brothers and sisters. What we didn’t have in financial wealth, we made up for in sheer numbers, and we loved to celebrate. My dad’s retirement party, I have to admit, was a mix of both celebration for him and just a reason to celebrate in general.
Dad didn’t retire in summer, like I am, but in January. It was especially cold that year, so an outdoor party was out of the question. Usually we’d just have everyone over to our house, but we decided this party would be a surprise—at least partly because we didn’t think Dad would open the door at our house if he knew. So we booked our church, and the party crowd automatically grew as the church congregation also loved and respected my father. My mom was worried that she couldn’t make enough food for everyone, but all of the ladies at the church assured her it would be a potluck and not to worry about it at all.
The night of the party, mom told dad that she needed to stop by the church and pick up her casserole dish from the carry in they’d had earlier that month. Everybody was waiting in the church meeting hall, which was festooned with confetti, balloons, and good intentions. Long tables had been pushed up against the wall and sagged under the weight of the potluck meal—chicken and noodles, potato soup, ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, pasta, and every other delicious meal you can imagine. A cake held the place of honor next to the punch bowl.
The lights were out and we all kind of shuffled in the darkness, nobody speaking, waiting for Dad to come in and flip the light. I had a fleeting worry about heart attacks, but my Dad was a pretty healthy guy, and I figured I was more worried about my health once he realized that we decided to have that party anyways.
Mom told Dad she didn’t want to go into the church by herself, since it was dark. I think my Dad became suspicious at this point. Mom wasn’t afraid of anything. Still, he parked the car and they headed inside. As soon as the light switched on, we all yelled either “Surprise!” or “Congratulations!” My brother tried to save himself from future repercussions by declaring “It wasn’t my idea!” I held my breath and watched my Dad’s face for signs that he was either pleasantly surprised or plotting revenge.
Dad smiled. He laughed. Before long, we were all laughing, talking and enjoying the feast prepared for us by the good ladies of the church. The party stretched on for three hours, and after everyone had finally said their good-byes and shook Dad’s hand, I found myself alone with him.
“I hope you had a good time, Dad,” I offered. “We love you, and we wanted to celebrate your retirement. You deserve it.”
“I had a great time, Sweetie,” he replied. And then he told me this, which I’ve never forgotten and it means so much to me now as I approach this final week before retirement. “I’ve worked for over 45 years of my life. It was just the way things were, and I never thought about not working. It’s part of who I am. I’ve never thought that you should get any special attention for doing something you should be doing anyway. But there’s nothing wrong with celebrating a job well done. I’m glad we had the party.”
My job is almost done, and I’m just proud enough to say that it is a job well done. Just like this Father’s Day, I know it will be bittersweet, but of course, all the best things are.