The Rituals of Fatherhood

DADDY DO

Yesterday, for the first time in the seven years we have lived in Unit C, I strung Christmas lights on the landing near the front door. Ours is the only apartment or house in the immediate area lit up for the season. Of course, the operation was not without a snafu or two.

By my own reckoning, I am the least mechanical man in America. When it comes to tools, engines, electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry or cabinetry, I am a moron, a complete idiot, beyond the help of the friendly experts at Home Depot. I lay the blame for this squarely on my father, and I’m sure my father would blame his father and so on down the line. My dad knew a thing or two about card games, horse racing, golf, cooking, and cutting meat, but when it came to the basic manly arts that were second nature to most American men of his generation, he was lost.

I deployed my tools to the landing: industrial stapler, step-stool, nails, hammer, bottle of Corona, and a tangled string of lights, which I at least had the sense to plug in and test before fastening them. It took about five minutes to untangle the string. Cars whizzed past on Milpas Street while I worked, a young Mexican woman pushing a baby stroller walked by, and the neighbor across the way stepped out on his landing for a smoke. This is the same bloke who throws his butts on the driveway, where they collect in small drifts like snow, and, when the wind blows, scoot across the driveway to form small drifts in our carport.

As I sipped my Corona and untangled the lights I was thinking: this is what fathers do. They hang Christmas lights on a Saturday afternoon. This is a time honored daddy ritual, a marker for passing years. Once a year we pull from the garage or carport or storage shed in the backyard the boxes and plastic containers and bags that hold lights, ornaments, wreaths, reindeer figures, stockings, and wrapping paper. We dust the stuff off, ruminate on how familiar it all looks, and think perhaps that maybe it’s time for some new things, like a life-sized Santa to anchor to the roof.

The industrial stapler that belonged to my wife’s grandfather didn’t work. I pulled out the pin that holds the staples in place, replaced the staples, shoved the pin back in, still no luck. The thing worked when I tried it down in the laundry room, but come show time, a dud. Switching to hammer and nails, I began hanging the lights; pound the nail, hang a section of the string, sip Corona, move the step-stool, repeat. It was unseasonably warm and it occurred to me that in other places, cold places, wet places, fathers not only battle the inevitable problems with the lights themselves, but also the elements. By contrast, my most significant challenge was pounding the nails in straight.

But I’m happy to report that I did it, the lights work, flashing merrily to announce the season to the cars and pedestrians who pass by.