My Father’s Day gift this year is a new chainsaw. At the time of writing, I do not have a new chainsaw. This has nothing to do with my wife or children and everything to do with my unrelenting hope that I can fix my old chainsaw. A part has been ordered. For all the times my patient wife has seen me standing in the yard, clad in chaps and helmet, fiddling with the bar tension or the carburetor, she has strongly encouraged me to start afresh. One more try, I said.
But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t lavished with Father’s Day blessings, tangible and otherwise. I spent the day with my family. We worshipped, ate meat, and played outside. Licorices of various types were received. And my third son gave me a small clay fish.
It is great. Cartoonish and cute, it is a great caricature of a fish. What’s more, he made a small clay fishing rod, line, and hook. Inside the clay fish’s mouth is an indentation that fits the hook perfectly. It will live on my dresser, lined up next to a miniature clay army of animals and superheroes. I love it.
I don’t need to elaborate on the intrinsic value of the gift versus the intent of the giver. You understand that. Even if you don’t have kids, reject the concept of Father’s Day, or are even the kind of person who uses the phrase “down with the patriarchy” in an unironic manner, you understand why I love the little clay fish.
Fly fishing gets it, too.
