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“Nice sweater,” says my friend.

She's right. It is a handsome sweater, though maybe a little incongruous on me, who generally wear black: hand-knitted Icelandic wool, cream, with russet yoke and bands around the wrists and waist, outlines in dark chocolate, and hodden green highlights. It's also very warm.

I gave it to my father one year for Yule. A little Icelandic woolens store had opened up downtown on Nicollet Mall. This particular sweater caught my eye: it had a certain monumental quality to it, architectonic, even. Not once on any of my visits back East did I ever see him wear it. Oh well, I thought, a little sadly: too showy for him, maybe. It certainly wouldn't have been the first disconnect in our relationship, nor the last. It took us years to learn how to communicate with one another. Maybe there was just too much to be said.

Going through the photos after my father's funeral this summer, I noted with surprise that in picture after picture, he was wearing the sweater.

“Oh yeah, that was dad's favorite sweater,” my sister told me. “He wore it all the time.”

Dads don't always get a fair shake. They have to take a good deal of kidding around, and often aren't as idealized as Moms. They aren't always the first parent that kids run to when they need nurturing or advice. Let's be honest—they often are the recipients of lame gifts. There are ways we can shift some of these attitudes and routines, however. What are the positive aspects of a father? Protection, safety, and security are strong associations. How about gifting you the confidence to do things on your own? Fathers can be great mentors in this regard, teaching you how to master a task, then stepping aside to let you take the wheel. This Summer Solstice think about ways that you can honor the fatherly aspects of the Oak King, the Holly King, and your own Dad.

Consider a cookout or camping trip with your Pop. If you do plan to camp, check your county and state parks' rules ahead of time this summer. Many have changed due to COVID-19, and most campgrounds require you to make a reservation in advance online. It's still all about the outdoors for safety right now, so even if weather is a little dicey, try to plan so that you'll be under a picnic shelter or tarp if necessary. You might need to take a deep breath and be flexible with your plans, if Mother Nature has others in store. Keep the mood light and fun, for everyone's sake. For a really unique theme and an open-minded Dad, try an Incan Summer Solstice ceremony and menu. Bring a locally bought or home-brewed beer, mead, or wine to share with him. Play a favorite card game that you used to growing up (might want to don the face masks for this one, though). To this day, my family is still cultivating some fierce Uno players. Set up a bean bag toss that the young ones can join in. Despite any rumors, badminton remains a nice no-contact sport. Likewise with that old-fashioned croquet set gathering cobwebs in your garage. Enjoy reminiscing about some of your more comic adventures growing up. Share a toast to more good times to come.

While I've never actually sired any children myself,* I have had the good fortunate to help with the raising of several of our coven kids.

The first of them was maybe a year old when we went to the store one day.

The cashier smiled.

“He looks like his father,” she said.

Really, there was only one possible response.

“Yes, he does,” I said, smiling back.

*The world's oldest gay joke:

My father watches me approach. The look on his face is complex.

He shakes his head, wondering.

“You look so much like my father,” he says.

Sometimes one single sentence is the very best gift you can give.

He's right: the rangy build, the jaw, the widow's peak. Right now I'm about the age that my grandfather would have been when I first remember him.

He was born in Vienna. I'd always thought that his name was Frank, but recently I found out that his parents named him (for the kaiser, I suppose) Franz Josef.

I'd be willing to bet that he chose Frank himself. Except for songs, he always refused to teach his children any German.

“We're Americans,” he'd say.

“That'll put hair on your chest!”

It's what my father always says when the tea's too strong.

It's a standing joke. Legs aside, none of the men in my family have much body hair to speak of. If there's any Neandertal DNA left in there, it must have got diluted out a long, long time ago.

“Gee,” I quip, “You mean I'll have seventeen?”

“Quit bragging!” says my father.

It may well be my first memory.

I'm laying in the dark screaming, terrified of the thunder that has wakened me. My father comes into the room and scoops me up into his arms.

We're moving. I distinctly remember passing from the darkness of the hall into the light of the kitchen. My mother is saying: Russell, what are you doing? Russell, what are you doing?

He carries me out the back door. Rain is sluicing down. We both must have been soaked through immediately, though I don't remember noticing. Out we go, into the heart of the storm.