Daddy Boy Stories

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Daddy Boy Stories
Menstuff® has compiled stories and poems on the issue of
fathers
How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.
Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our
Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or
coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?
Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?
If we forgive our Fathers what is left?
* This poem was read during the closing credits of the incredible
film "Smoke Signals". It was originally published in a longer version
titled "Forgiving Our Fathers" in a book of poems titled Ghost
Radio

When my first boy was an infant, I had a friend with a son about
four. We lived in the same apartment complex which backed up to a
golf course. Late one summer afternoon as I drove in from work, I
happened to see my friend and his son walking across the open green
expanse toward a huge old oak tree. I parked and watched them,
thinking about the day when I could walk with my own son, and teach
him of the world. When they reached the tree, each unzipped his pants
and proceeded to urinate on the great old tree. When they finished
they zipped up, chatted for a minute, then turned around and headed
back across the fairway to their apartment. A day or two later when I
happened to see my friend, I asked him about that incident. It was a
beautiful story which I will share with you.
As a boy, my friend Bill did not have much physical or emotional
contact with his father. The man worked a great deal and it was not
the kind of job to which he could take Bill. So Bill watched his Dad
disappear six mornings a week to some secret place, with great
curiosity and not a little jealousy. His Dad worked very hard and
when he got home it was his habit to have a quiet dinner and listen
to the news on the radio, occasionally tuck Bill into bed and
disappear again, to where Bill had no idea.
On Sundays dad would spend most of the day wrapped around the
newspaper or sleeping or doing a little work around the house. The
father didn't talk much to Bill, or anyone else for that matter, and
by the time Bill was four or five, he had learned that dads were not
very available for conversation. There was never much doubt in Bill's
mind that his father loved him very much, but he could never seem to
get the same kind of attention that mom gave him, and it bothered
him. Wasn't he, after all, a man, just like his dad?
So, at around the age of seven, Bill decided that he needed to
talk to his Dad. One bright summer Sunday, he approached the older
man and asked why he never talked to anyone but mom. Bill asked if
that meant his father was not happy, and if his unhappiness was
Bill's fault. At this, his father stared at Bill for a few long
moments and asked why Bill thought he might be unhappy. "Well," he
remembered saying, "how can you be happy if you don't talk?" Slowly,
the father took Bill's hand and walked with him in silence to a far
corner of their yard. Here they stopped beneath a great old oak
tree.
"Son," the big man said, "there is no greater happiness in the
world than in this old tree. It does not have to talk to be happy.
It's happy just being a tree." "But you are not a tree, you're my
dad," said the boy." "Yes, but knowing that you are my son makes me
just as happy as this tree." The boy thought about this for a moment,
looking up into the full and inviting arms of the tree. "But Dad," he
said eventually, "how do you know the tree is happy?" "Well", he said
gently and with a rarely seen smile, "it just looks happy. We can
tell by the great size and fullness and richness of its branches and
by its strength." "Can I help the tree be happy?" asked the young
one.
With this, the father thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what,
Bill. I'll bet that if you give the tree a gift, it would be even
happier than it is now." "What kind of a gift could we give a tree,
dad?" "Well, the most important thing for a tree is water. Without
water the tree would quickly die. Suppose you and I pee on this tree
and give it the gift of water." "Oh yes," cried Bill, "let's do that.
Let's do that."
After that day it was never very hard for Bill to find a way to
talk to his father when something important was on his mind. He would
just ask him to come pee on the tree with him. Bill does not recall
his father ever refusing.
With the passing years and the life of his father, Bill forgot
about the ritual. Life got complicated, he fell in love and was
married and eventually had a son of his own. That afternoon, when I
had seen the two of them at the old oak, the boy had asked his father
a very serious question. He wanted to know the difference between
boys and girls. Bill felt uncomfortable but hesitated to brush the
query aside.
Suddenly, the memory of his father came to him and he took the boy
into his first initiation. As they stood before the great oak, Bill
told his son, "Well, son, I guess that we're all pretty much the same
in most ways but the main difference between boys and girls is that
girls can have babies, which is very nice..but boys can pee on
trees." Sometimes the greatest wisdom is in the simplest answers.
©Copyright 1999, Kenneth F. Byers a personal coaching
professional with a thirty year background in business, industry and
therapy. He specializes in phone based Men's Life Coaching and also
publishes a free e-mail letter titled Transitions , where this
appeared. Request via e-mail at mekendar@pacbell.net
or www.etropolis.com/coachken/

This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered
high school.
But his father continued to encourage him but also made it very
clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to. But
the young man loved football and decided to hang in there.
The son was determined to try his best at every practice, and
perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior.
All through high school he never missed a practice but still
remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful father always in
the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.
When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the
football team as a "walk-on." Everyone was sure he could never make
the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the
roster because he always puts his heart and soul to every practice
and, at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and
hustle they badly needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he
rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared
his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college
games.
This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his
four years at college, but he never got to play in the game. It was
the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the
practice field shortly before the big play-off game, the coach met
him with a telegram.
The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent.
Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this
morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his
arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week
off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on
Saturday."
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third
quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man
quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football
gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were
astounded to see their faithful teammate back so soon.
"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the
young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he
wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man
persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave
in.
"All right," he said, "you can go in." Before long, the coach, the
players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This
little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything
right.
The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked
and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was
soon tied.
In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass
and ran all the way for the winning touchdown!
The fans broke loose. His teammates hoisted him onto their
shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!
Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered
and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was
sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and
said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got
into you? How did you do it?"
He looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well,
you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?"
The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all
my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I
wanted to show him I could do it!"
somebody is very proud of you.
somebody is thinking of you.
somebody is caring about you.
somebody misses you.
somebody wants to talk to you.
somebody wants to be with you.
somebody hopes you are not in trouble.
somebody is thankful for the support you have provided.
somebody wants to hold your hand.
somebody hopes everything turns out all right for you.
somebody wants you to be happy.
somebody want you to find him/her.
somebody wants to give you a gift.
somebody wants to hug you.
somebody thinks you ARE a gift.
somebody admires your strength.
somebody wants to protect you.
somebody can't wait to see you.somebody loves you for who you
are.
somebody treasures your spirit.
somebody is glad that you are their friend.
somebody wants to get to know you better.
somebody wants to be near you.
somebody wants you to know they are there for you.
somebody would do anything for you.
somebody wants to share their dreams with you.
somebody is alive because of you.
somebody needs your support.
somebody will cry when they read this.
somebody needs you to have faith in them.
somebody trusts you.
somebody hears a song that reminds them of you.
somebody needs you to send this to them, too.
"To the whole world you might be just one person, but to one
person you might be the whole world."

Do You Remember when You Were Three?



The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman's sparse
surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and
introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.
"I want to repay you," said the nobleman. "You saved my son's life."
"No, I can't accept payment for what I did," the Scottish farmer
replied, waving off the offer.
At that moment, the farmer's own son came to the door of the
family hovel. "Is that your son?" the nobleman asked. "Yes," the
farmer replied proudly. "I'll make you a deal. Let me take him and
give him a good education. If the lad is anything like his father,
he'll grow to a man you can be proud of." And that he did.
In time, Farmer Fleming's son graduated from St. Mary's Hospital
Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the
world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of
Penicillin.
Years afterward, the nobleman's son was stricken with pneumonia.
What saved him? Penicillin. The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph
Churchill. His son's name, Winston Churchill.
Someone once said: What goes around comes around. Work like you
don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like
nobody's watching. It's National Friendship Week. Send this to
everyone you consider a friend. Pass this on, and brighten someone's
day. Nothing will happen if you do not decide to pass it along. The
only thing that will happen, if you DO pass it on, is that someone
might smile.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad!" I heard from the other end. "Thanks,
Nat." I said. "Sounds like you have a cold." "This is Jenny," the
voice said. I'm confused. "Is this some kind of joke, Nat," I
replied, figuring that it was. "No, my name is Jennifer Masters. It's
taken me a long time to find you." Masters? I thought. I don't
remember any Masters. Jenny continued, "Your name is Gordon Clay,
isn't it? You lived in Kansas City, didn't you? You used to go to
Barry's Barn dancing, didn't you?" The answers were yes. "Well, do
you remember Sharon Masters?" Sharon Masters? I racked my brain,
still in somewhat of a fog. "No, I'm sorry I don't." I replied. "You
used to dance with her a lot. You even dated her for awhile. She's my
mother."
Ring. Ring. Ring. I awaken from a deep sleep and pick up the
phone. "Happy Father's Day, Dad!" I hear from the other end. "Thanks,
Nat. What time is it, anyway?" "It's a little before 7 and I wanted
to call you before we went wind-surfing. The wind's really blowing
this morning and we thought we'd get an early start." We chatted for
a while but not about the dream she had just woken me from.
I spent a disturbed Sunday working with my dream. What was it
saying? The memories started to return. As a teen-ager, I used to go
to the Barry's Barn all the time. There were always a lot of
good-looking girls there and, being a good dancer, I got the chance
to date many of them.
Then I was reminded of the many adults who had taken my "Healing
the Father Wound ® " workshop since 1986 had
father's whom they never knew and the pain they went throught talking
about it. Some were one-night stands. Some mothers choose never to
tell the partner he had fathered a child and raised them or left them
for adoption. Some had since located their fathers, but others never
even knew their father's name. Some of their mothers hadn't
either.
The pain began to grow within me. "Oh no," I thought. There was a
girl I dated for a while. One night she wanted to leave the dance
early and talk. I still don't remember much about that evening, but I
do remember that she told me she was pregnant. Assuming, as I do now,
that the child was mine, I think I asked if I could help. She said
no, that she was going to leave school to have the baby. I remember
feeling relieved at the time and subsequently tuned it out of my
memory.
In one of my workshops, I remember thinking that one of these
attendees might be that child, conceived back in the back of my
father's car in 1959. I thought, if the child was carried to term and
is still alive, they may be out their looking for me, having little
more to go on that I do.
In 1994 I decided to give myself a "Father's Day" gift, a plane
ticket home to start my search. If s/he didn't want to see me, that's
okay. It's just very clear to me how important it was to make the
effort to let this person know who their natural father is.
So, I dedicate this story to every man who has ever had sex out of
wedlock and didn't get married. And to those who are still willing to
create a child by having sex without protection.
There's no time like the present to think back through those
active "two teen-agers' in lust" years. Maybe even your more recent
years. Might there be someone out their looking for you, to fill in
the missing pieces of their life? It's scary to think about, but the
time has come to take responsibility and risk whatever the outcome.
Are you willing to be responsible? I sure hope you'll join me on this
venture and let your child know what kind of a person you've grown up
to be! A man in the true sense, is one who is willing to face his own
fear and be responsible for all of his actions.
Come Father's Day, you might just pick up the phone and hear
"Happy Father's Day, Dad!" from a strange, new voice. What will you
say? - Gordon Clay

See also books fathers-genera l,
fathers&daughters ,
fathers-single ,
fathers&sons
 
I am writing this last letter to a great man, leading father and
influential grandfather. To someone, whom I think understood me more
than grandmother, because she couldn't always comprehend my feelings
and youth, and I often went off in a direction where few, if any,
could understand. This would confuse grandmother. Grandfather
understood much more, I think. And I feel, more than ever, that he
understood a great deal more about me than I thought he did. Gramps,
there were a lot of things that I had been planning, starting back at
least a year ago. I remember how we used to drive around, while I was
taking you to the bank, or for gas down on Broadway, or to Manor's or
the laundry on Main or out on Troost. You used to tell me everything
you knew about Kansas City and who lived in what house, when. All
about everything that was anything and everybody who was anybody.
Being young and carefree at the time and really caring less about the
whole thing, I listened little to what you had to say. I had hoped to
do three things when I came home in December. Number one was to take
you downtown and get you the latest style suit, hat and coat in the
latest fashion, and then just drive around Kansas City and let you
tell me all about it, this time paying attention to your words with
interest. Then we would go to church, and everybody would see
grandfather and grandson going to church togehter, and I would sit up
so proudly to be sitting by one of the eldest and most regular church
members at Second. And then, when stockholders day came at Burler,
the first one for me I remember so well, when the chairman got up and
introduced both of us saying the oldest and the newest stockholders
added to the Butler list, and there in that same place we would sit
together. I had hoped that you would take up the brush again and tell
me stories with it. I so enjoyed the opportunity to be your private
critic. It made me proud. And then to have you role out the long
scroll of the family line, and tell me where I came from and just how
long the blood line was. All about the Scots, the English and the
Germans. And when the two families of Clays came to the new land and
one went South (the Henry's) and one went West (us). I had so much to
learn over again, that I had heard so many times, that just didn't
soak in. About Westport Landing, about the old days at Procter -
where I well remember the annual bingo games, and then over to
Luziers to visit your friends. Yes, there were a lot of things I
wanted you to tell me, about the old civil war sword and the times
Phil had building the boats. And for you to pick out a tune on your
eight-string bango. There's only one other instrument that I would
rather hear, one I hope to be able to play someday, and that is the
Pipes. Then comes the bango - and of course, the parradiddle that you
kept trying to teach me, and my hands just didn't quite have what
yours so apply possessed.
Now, all I can say as I type this, literally with tears in my
eyes, is that I hope that I can be just a small portion of the man of
my father and grandfather. I see my father as a man of little fault
and much tolerance. More than many know. If I can come anywhere close
to the image of these two men, which have greatly instilled meaning
in my evident characteristics, then I would indeed feel that I had
accomplished the greatest task of human life, that of becoming a
real man. And it all started with you, gramps. My good traits
I attribute to th
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