I’m interested right now in the topic of parenthood, fostering, mothers, fathers, children, and family.  This post and the next one coming soon stem from that interest.

My father died ten years ago on the Summer Solstice.

For months before that, we’d looked out the hospital windows to track the lengthening light.  “Ah, it’s getting better all the time,” he’d say, continuing his long fisherman’s habit of noting time and tide, sun, moon, and wave.  We counted those extra minutes of daylight as though they were gold coins in a treasure-house.  And of course they were – though far more precious than gold, because what we were really counting was time and light and life.

Elegant as ever, he made his exit on the Longest Day when the treasure-house was heaped highest in all the year.

I miss him still with an ache and a deep joy mixed.  I feel stunned with gratitude that Glenn Paul Chadbourne was my father.  How lucky for a poet to be born to a fisherman!  How blessed I was to rise early and sit crunching corn flakes with my father as we listened to the scanner box tell us what kind of seas the day held in store.  Words cannot convey my love for him which grows stronger and richer and deeper with every passing year.

But I want to tell you – especially if your relationship with your dad is challenging in any way – it wasn’t always easy and there were times of terrible pain, confusion, resentment, and anger.  My father left us when I was 19.  It’s a long story and probably not all that different from other divorce stories.  But to me, the kid, what stung the worst is that until the last year of his life, he never called me on the phone.  Any visits, any contact, any calls were initiated by me.  And man, that hurt like crazy.  I felt so completely left.  I felt sometimes like I had no father.

And then I’d visit him and he’d charm the socks off me again.  He had the most beautiful manners of anyone I’ve ever met.  He was courtly and elegant, gracious and magnetic, a true gentleman.  I’d bring him a Father’s Day present of a fresh LL Bean chamois shirt and he’d lift it reverently from the box, praise its color, and say, “Oh, that’s champion.  That’s a corker.  Oh, I like that, Kate.”  I’d beam like I’d just won a billion dollars and become Poet Laureate of The Solar System, because pleasing him felt like that to me.

But then, as ever, I’d hear nothing from him.  And sometimes when I’d call, he’d sound put out and distant, as though I were a tele-marketer tearing him away from a must-watch TV show.  After those calls, my heart would burn and sometimes I’d make bitter vows:  “Forget him.  That’s the last time I’ll call…” Of course, I never kept them.

This cycle of close-far, close-far, love-hurt, love-hurt went on through my 20’s.  At the same time, I made an important discovery which changed my life for the better:

There are fathers everywhere.

Yes, you get the one who brought you into the world and you’re lucky if he’s a loving father who sticks around and loves you in a way that you recognize as love.  If not, don’t despair because:

Good men, nurturing, protective, kind, fatherly men are everywhere, and some will become fathers to you.

That has been my experience, even from the time I was little.  First came Dr. B, father of my dear friend, Blanche.  He was the first person to talk philosophy with me.  He pierced my ears.  He gave me my first taste of wine.  He fanned the flames of my hunger for books and ideas.  He took me on holidays with Blanche and his family.  And he taught me so, so much about living, thinking, growing, and revering life.

Next came another doctor – my ex-husband’s dad, whom I called Big Greg.  Like Dr. B, Big Greg was a voracious reader and a connoisseur of life’s pleasures.  He loved to laugh, eat, listen to music, explore, think, and talk.  He also had a great gift for enjoying other people’s enjoyment.  During my 20’s when my own father was hard to reach, Big Greg was always glad to chat, to keep cheerful company, to tempt me with a glass of fine cider or a succulent morsel of chocolate.  When I told him that I wanted to buy a new, larger, more resonant harp, he said, “As I get older, I want to help make dreams come true,” and he gave me the money.  Now he is part of every song I play on that beautiful harp.

Another father, this time to my intellect, curiosity, scholarship, humanity, and artistry is – yes – another doctor, though not a medical one:  Professor Patrick K. Ford, who was chair of the Department of Celtic Languages and Literatures at Harvard when I was pursuing my doctorate.  (If you’d like to learn more about him and his work, I interviewed him a few years ago and you can find the interview here.)  He is a GIANT in the field of Celtic Studies, a gifted and caring teacher, a fellow poet and writer, and also my beloved friend and mentor.  Here he is on a thrilling day of adventure at Slieve League in Donegal when he came to visit me during my post-doc in Derry.

Remember, too, that we have access to thousands of fathers in stories, songs, poems, films, plays, and the whole realm of the imagination.  Some of my other fathers have been:

• Matthew from Anne of Green Gables
• Uncle Merry in Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising sequence
• Leonardo Da Vinci (OK, he’s actually my brother, but he still deserves a mention here
• Séamus Heaney, great and cherished Irish poet
• and of course:

I continue to meet good fathers everywhere.

Once years ago, at a moment of keen father-loss and heartbreak, I was invited to sing for a black-tie event at the President’s House at Harvard.  I sang with all my heart and then sat down at the place marked for me.  A kindly older gentleman leaned over and complimented my singing, then said,

I don’t know if you’re looking for a father, but if you are:  I’m him!

Maybe, thinking of Hilary Clinton’s words, it takes a village of fathers to father one person.  Maybe we need a series of fathers to shepherd us through our life’s stages and to meet us where we are as we live and grow.

Imperfect as we both are, still my father was the perfect father for me and I weep now in gratitude and love for him.  But I’m so glad he’s had back-ups, brothers, reinforcements, and co-fathers.  They filled in the places that weren’t his to fill, they taught me things that weren’t his to teach, and they loved me in ways that he couldn’t.  When you look at it this way, all the pieces fit together into a mosaic of blessing.

And now, because of all of these men, I have a father who lives inside me who is loving, protective, funny, generous, curious, elegant, strong, smart, creative, powerful, and a great lover of life.  I carry him and he carries me.

I hope you can look at your life and see a parade of fathers who stepped in at just the right time to father you to your next self.  I’d love to hear about them.  Let’s celebrate these wonderful men and remind ourselves that we are never fatherless and that we, in turn, can father (and mother) those around us.

There are fathers everywhere when you really think about it.

Happy Father’s Day to ALL the fathers!