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During the 1970’s and 80’s a large priesthood push was personal father’s interviews. I think it was a public way to encourage dad’s to interact with their kids. In my life, my dad and I were close. We did lots of things together. I was his shadow as soon as I could walk. I became an awkward teen during the “father’s interview” phase. My dad is a diligent man, and every Sunday we would engage in these stiff one on one meetings. He is a corporate man, and the meetings often felt like staff meetings or job reviews. I dreaded them, complained to my mom, sat stoically, you name it. It became an elephant in our relationship.
One day Friday night out of the blue, my dad invited me to ice cream. We sampled flavors, piled favorites up in mountainous bowls, added toppings and gorged ourselves. It was a blast. We ate, we traded bites, we talked, and went home happy. A couple weeks later, we did it again. Then one day it hit me, he hadn’t stopped by on Sunday. He made a change. He kept his priesthood promise of interviewing me, and I ate ice cream.
I don’t know if my mom thought of it, or he did, either way it saved a valuable relationship. Behind a bowl of ice cream, or driving along in the car, I was more relaxed. I could share my heart and hear his words.
As I watch our church walk it’s way through parenting teens I keep hoping for ice cream nights. Everyone in jeans or shorts, no stiff chairs, or formal sit downs. Our religious family is special, just like mine was, that special-ness needs oil to keep it rolling. I testify that ice cream dates go much further in strengthening, teaching, and growing than stiff sit down, Sunday dress interviews. Last summer, I watched my dad take a grand daughter to ice cream. I knew what was happening, she didn’t, all the same it worked it’s magical charm once again.
ice cream is good! 
Thanks!
I have to give a talk on Sunday for Father’s Day, and I read back through an old post I did on this topic. It included a poem I wrote about my dad when I was in college: Quote:“Fear and Love”
A handgun by my father’s bed
made me dread sleep. I’d dream he’d gone mad.
Killer-dad stalked me. As I slumbered,
He lumbered, and then, a parting shot—
A red dot, plaguing my forehead
I was dead. But no—awake in terror
The mirror, reflecting sudden light—I scream
From my dream. But their door was locked
Though I knocked.
Rods and tackle box in hand,
Untamed land disappeared behind us and a cliff.
I wonder if Dad remembers fishing at sunset.
I can’t forget. I scared the fish away
Every day.
The dinner table’s the place
Dad’s stuffed face forbids me to tell him
That he’s in the wrong. I protest, mom agrees.
We stab peas with clean forks—no appetites.
After fights the three of us do the dishes.
Mom wishes we wouldn’t fight at dinner.
Now she’s thinner.
Once, Mom had a heart attack
In her back. She gasped with every breath,
But no death ensued—only dad’s flippancy.
I and she laughed about it, then,
Laughed again and let it go.
We used to fish—Dad and I
But he’ll die, and I’ll forget how to reel
And how to feel both fear and love for him—
One will win.
I think father-child relationships used to be fraught with the formality that comes from absentee parenting. It’s very different nowadays. I see how my husband is with my kids, and it’s not the same, although all father-child relationships are tricky. I don’t mean that there wasn’t a good relationship in my case, just that there was more distance, particularly emotional distance for men in my father’s era. Real men didn’t cry, hug or express emotions.
Expressive poem. Thanks for sharing.
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