I knew this photo of my father and mother was taken in San Francisco in June 1963, when they were about to board a ship for Honolulu to attend that year’s U.S. Conference of Mayors. I didn’t know that John F. Kennedy spoke to the mayors at the conference that year. I learned this only a year ago when my brother unearthed an audiotape of an interview my father gave for a University of Kentucky history project. In that interview, my father talked about Kennedy’s speech to the mayors, in which Kennedy stressed the urgent need for U.S. cities to join federal efforts to address racism.
I had absolutely no idea my father had heard John F. Kennedy speak. That fact is one of many I’ve come across slowly in the more than 30 years my father has been gone.
Note the camera in my father’s right hand. Once idly looking at some old census data for Lexington, Kentucky, where I was born and where my father’s family lived for generations, I was astonished to see my father’s occupation listed as “photographer.” He never worked as a photographer to my knowledge but may have aspired to. If he did, he never mentioned it.
Father’s Day brings perpetually mixed feelings — great gratitude that David is a wonderful father to our son and an annual return of sadness about the wreckage of my father’s life and the damage his alcoholism inflicted on all of us. Every year I waver between distinct sets of feelings: resolute, forced acceptance of who he was along with internal commands to get over it because nothing can be changed, and deep, terrible regret.
If my father were around today, I’d ask him about his recollection of JFK’s speech that day 60 years ago. I’d also want to know if he had any memories of photos taken in Honolulu with the camera he’s holding. If the photos ever existed, they’ve vanished.
Wishing all fathers a delightful day, and all sons and daughters sweet memories of their dads.
The Green Side of the Grass 