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When I was a child, my uncle Frederic completed
his planting on the small northern New England self-sufficient
farm in the month of June. Mother earth, warmed
by the embrace of father sun and moist from the
waters of the spring rain, was ready to be opened
and seeded. She extended the invitation. The barnyard
cacophony celebrated the new possibilities.
Now, my uncle knew nothing about the mythologies
of the world. In my high school years, I would never
have tried to impress him with my limited knowledge
of world literature. And I certainly would not have
mentioned to him that, for me, he epitomized the
father archetype. He might have sent me out to muck
the stall of his prize bull just to put me in my
rightful place and incase I had transgressed the
unusual liberties he afforded me as his godson.
Let's say that I knew my place in the world according
to Uncle Frederic.
Here was a man who knew that he was the man on
the farm. Of that, he had no doubt. He had no doubts
to dispel. His role was clear. He assigned it to
himself. Everyone knew it. My aunt knew it. He knew
that she not only knew it; but that she expected
it of him as she expected that he clearly understand
that she was the woman of the house. Speak of clear
and defined roles. No one was permitted to interject
themselves between them. No one did. No one dared.
I relished the sight of the ill informed and naively
brazen guest who made the slightest move. My aunt
and uncle closed rank quicker and more tightly than
a herd of yaks. And he was on point.
The analogy of his position on the farm did not
escape him. He seeded the fields. He walked the
bull that sired his purebred cows. He grounded his
life as husband and father in the celebration of
the archetypal mystery of sex, seeding the garden
of his love.
In the years that I visited the farm, he fathered
his sons and daughters, the animals and the land.
He actively tended to the needs of all. Gave secure
shelter, ample praise and focused attention. He
demarcated the farm with wood wire and stone. He
kept the unwelcome and the dangerous out and away.
His 20-gage shotgun fill with rock salt ammunition
hung in the mud room ready to scare even maim or
kill man or beast that would be foolish enough to
threaten his issue or the young of his wards in
barn or meadow.
He lived his life. He rejoiced at every sign of
growth. He grieved every failure to thrive, every
stunted crop, and every death in barn and coup.
This is the man, who on his deathbed in a strange
hospital stopped an officious nurse dead in her
tract. She had busily dismissed my aunt as a country
bumpkin. I witnessed it and waited. He did not miss
a beat.
"Do you see this woman with the handbag on
her lap", he asked as he breathed haltingly
due to the effort and moving the breathing tub to
the side of his face?
She turned from the bedside and pointed to my aunt.
"This woman?"
"Yes", he said. "That woman. She
may not look like much to you; but let me tell you.
She is the most beautiful woman in the world."
That is all he said. He did not have to say more.
The unsuspecting nurse slithered out of the room.
My aunt sat straight up in her chair, her eyes glistening
with pride and love. His sparkling eyes locked on
to hers and they made love an archetypal reality
before his youngest daughter's eyes and mine.
Behold a father.
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