Father’s Day thoughts

 

Jacob, right, with longtime friend Colin
Hosts at Joe T.'s

Across the country today, Americans celebrated Father’s Day. Regardless of what you think of the commercialization of parenthood (think of Mother’s Day which is Father’s Day on steroids), this is traditionally a day to celebrate all things masculine, mostly with food: steak, potatoes, and the grill. Not if you’re a Burton though: like many holidays throughout the year, Father’s Day calls for dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s.

For those not from Fort Worth, the restaurant is commonly called Joe T.’s and is Fort Worth’s classic Mexican restaurant, the place where every celebrity that comes to town dines. Joe and Jessie Garcia began the business in 1935 with sixteen tables. Over the years it has grown, expanding on the original small space until today sprawling patios lush with plants and several dining areas can seat over a thousand. But the menu remains the same. It also remains very much a family business.

Signs were evident though that the children the Burton men are growing up. We went for lunch rather than dinner because Jacob’s host shift at Joe T.’s began at two-thirty and his cousin, Ariceli, had to be back in Denton at seven to work in an ice cream parlor. Times, they are a-changing.

Some sixteen years ago Christian waited tables at Joe T.’s. Since then, he and Jordan have been back often, hosted events there, and generally kept in touch. So for Jacob to go to work there this week was like following a family tradition. (Besides, all four of my children worked in food service when they were in school.) Going to Joe T.’s with Jordan and Christian makes you feel you are in the company of celebrities—the management staff, wait staff, lots of people come hug them, chat about what’s going on, and this time, to tease and fuss over Jacob who bore it all with extremely good grace. Christian sometimes seems to still work there, popping up to get a napkin or look at Jacob’s schedule or some such.

The occasion called for me to push my mobility limits and ultimately gave me cause to brag. We took my transport chair and Jordan pushed me up the long ramp to the patio only to find because of the heat we were seated inside. This meant, with Christian’s help, I walked up three steps, across an entry way, up another step, and then down three steps. Between the up and down I got parked out of the way of traffic and found myself next to a table where someone was finishing a meal. The woman seated there looked at me and said, “You can do this.” I joked about something, but I want to thank her for giving me a boost in confidence. After I got down the stairs, I turned to give her a thumbs up and she returned the sign. Finally we were at the table. Fortunately, we went out through the original restaurant, now a tiny reception area, where Christian could push me right down a ramp—no stairs to conquer. I was uncertain about his joke that if he let go I would go sailing right down. Not a funny thought!

At Joe T.’s at night, the menus is limited: you get fajitas (either chicken or beef) or “the dinner” which consists of mini tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, guacamole, and tortillas—always too much for me. But at lunch there’s a wider choice—I was torn between bean chalupas and tortilla soup, which Christian pointed out were two very different items. I went with two chalupas—full but not uncomfortably so. And wine, while others were having the world-famous margaritas.

Lunch at Joe T.’s for me is subtitled, “How to kill an entire day.” This morning I did about a half hour real work on the memoir I’m struggling with—taking notes from blogs during the appropriate time period. Then I “went” to church on the computer—Christian and Jacob went in person and though I searched the computer screen, I didn’t see them.

There was a moving baby dedication for Father’s Day—two gay men presented the daughter they have adopted, an Asian girl who looked to be maybe three months. She was alert and curious, and as the minister said, loving being the center of attention. Her two dads stood in front of the congregation beaming. Really proud of my church, proud to be a member of an inclusive congregation.

We went to Joe T.’s at 1:30, got home after 3:30, and I ran, not walked, to take a nap. Day drinking may have been okay in my past, but it does me in now. I dozed from about four until five-fifteen when Sophie asked very politely for her dinner. Couldn’t resist—I went back to bed and next thing I knew it was six-fifteen and Megan was on the phone.

So now the dilemma after a Joe T.’s lunch: I’m full but a bit hungry, I want to eat but I don’t know what I want to eat.

Hope all who celebrated had a good Father’s Day. We can always grill something another time.

One man’s happiness

Father’s Day, and I’m sitting at my desk, worrying about all the dads who wanted to spend their day on the golf course. It’s almost as dark as night, and the thunder and rain have been constant all afternoon. When I napped, I had an anxious dog snuggled up next to me.

We went to early church—no wonder I’m sleepy—and afterwards had a delightful brunch, apparently Christian’s favorite meal. Now they have gone to Coppell to see his parents and pick up Jacob who spent the weekend there.

The internet is full of memories of fathers today, and most of them are being described as fun and crazy. Makes me think about my dad. He was never crazy but one of the most disciplined men I ever met. Fun? Only when you were old enough to appreciate his droll humor. Dad was Canadian and very much an Anglophile at heart. He liked order and routine, and Mom gave it to him.

I was his only child (a sister died at six months), though he raised my half-brother. Theirs was not always a meeting of the minds until John was old enough to appreciate Dad’s virtues and approach him as an adult. Dad was, among other things, a stickler for respect and table manners (the British version—I still want to switch my fork from the left, for cutting, to the right for eating—it drove him crazy, as did buttering your bread in the air. And elbows on the table? Never! No hats at the table either—perish the thought.).

But I got to thinking today, as I read about all these joyful fathers, whether or not my father was a happy man, and I concluded he was. Without boasting, I’ll say I know that I made him happy (except for the few major times I disappointed him). He was proud of me, as I was proud of him.

My mom made him happy. She ran what to his mind was the perfect household—meat and potatoes for dinner at six every night, served at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and linen napkins at every place. Anyone remember napkin rings? And she was a perfect intellectual match for him, being equally as well read. She acceded to his belief that women should not work outside the home, though I think she sometimes longed to. She compensated with volunteer activities.

I think of three happy places for my dad. He, an osteopathic physician, president of an osteopathic college, and administrator of the associated hospital, liked nothing better than to put on old, disreputable clothes and work in his garden. When I was growing up in Chicago, we had a beautiful garden in the empty lot which was part of our property. Dad was equally happy on our annual vacation to the Indiana Dunes, where we had a primitive cottage—no electricity, no indoor plumbing. You had to walk a mile to get to it, carrying your clothes and groceries. But with woods to the back of the cabin and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan to the front, it was a little bit of heaven. Food tasted better, you slept better, and a swim in the lake was the highlight of the day.

Mom and Dad retired to North Carolina, the foothills of the Smokies where they had honeymooned, and Dad once again had a glorious garden. Mom had fresh roses on her dining table every day (the linen cloth had gone the way of all good things). Dad would come in from the garden, shower and put on a fresh shirt, and they’d have a proper British tea, with milk of course, never cream, and always some kind of biscuit.

Today it sounds like an old-fashioned life and maybe even by the sixties and seventies, it was. But looking back, I would say my dad was a happy man. He had professional success, a family he loved, and life that just suited him. Not many of us can say that.