Of paper hats and legacies...

Caty, 6, asked me today to make her a paper hat, like the one in old storybooks, all pointy at the top and made from newspaper. Luckily for me, my father was having lunch here at that moment, and I sent her to him.

You see, before he became an academic and college president, my Dad worked in the journalism business too, starting as a copy boy at the old San Francisco Examiner (where I would later enjoy a photo internship) in the 1930s. When there, he learned how to make paper hats from the printing machinists, who would fold a double-page piece of broadsheet paper into a square hat to protect their hair from ink. It was always a small miracle to me to watch him make them when I was a child, and I thought it would be a double benefit for Caty to ask him for a hat: He'd be rewarded for his grandfatherly knowledge, and she'd be occupied and happy.

But the years have passed (he's 87 now) and it's been a while since anyone (me) asked for one of those hats. He had a hard time remembering.

Fortunately, I had preserved the last one I asked for. It hangs in a place of honor in my study, made from a yellowed, 14-year-old Commentary page of The Washington Times. I fetched it, brought it in and, from my memory of watching him make them and by carefully unfolding my treasure, figured out how it should be made.

Of course, with the internet, it's easy to find instructions on how to do ... well anything. But the idea of learning from living memory, not to mention family memory, to do something is special, I think.

Of course, there is one problem: how long before one won't be able to find a double-page piece of broadsheet newspaper?

The Rule of Joseph...

I think I'm beginning to figure out what to do with this.  Forgive me as I find my voice -- a voice I wish sounded more like P.G. Wodehouse, or at least Bertie Wooster.

It has occurred to me that this is a useful place for those ideas that occur to you suddenly, wholly formed, but have no particular use or outlet.  At least, they occur to me ... especially after a couple of glasses of wine.

Tonight, I suddenly thought of something that could be called "The Rule of Joseph," after St. Joseph.  Yep, you know, Jesus' father -- or rather the guy who took on the father role for a couple of decades.  

You know, he's not quoted in the Bible.  At all.  Not one word from the guy who had to take care of Jesus -- provide income, teach him a trade, be a Dad.  Yeah, I know it was a different time, and frankly who could beat Mary in the Mom role, but still not one word?

My Dad pointed out one day, when I was still fairly young and it was still unusual to be on TV, that people often waved at the camera and said, "Hi, Mom!"  It became a bit of a joke, it happened so often.  I remember a pro football player noticing the camera, waving and mouthing the words, "Hi, mom," and my Dad asked, "Why don't they ever say, 'Hi, Dad?''

It did strike me as an interesting thought at the time, but it means ever so much more now.  Now I'm Dad, to two girls, 6 and 2, and they're in a Mommy period.  Me?  I'm chopped liver.

It's the Rule of Joseph.  It's my place.  I have to be Dad: available, dependable, solid, stolid, and strong.  They're not coming for me for long talks or soft hugs, but I have to be there.  There's not a lot of payoff, especially not if you had some vision, say when you decided to get married, of how life was going to be.

You were probably in your twenties, when you're looking at options, and this marriage and kids option has begun to look like a good idea.  Believe it or not girls, to guys that does seem a good idea at some point, and you are a big part of that vision.  But what I'm getting at is this: As with everything, you don't really end up where you thought you would.

Perhaps that should be carved over the exit of the birthing center: You won't end up where you expect.  At any rate, I digress, because it's not just where you end up; it's where you need to be.

As I enter the power dive down toward 50, I gotta' tell you twenty-somethings that no one is going to appreciate your efforts.  You'll stay up late helping, you'll be the Dad you wish you had (or in my case, was lucky enough to have), you'll keep trying to do "the right thing" and that will keep you up at nights (when you desperately need sleep).  And for that, your two-year-old will only want Mommy.  It's your place.  You're Joseph.  You do everything you can, raise a family, and what will happen?  Mary gets a cult.  You get to help sell real estate...