For most of my life, Mother’s Day has been a larger holiday than Father’s Day. In the days before direct-dial long distance, there was always a newspaper story about Mother’s Day having the highest call volume of any day of the year, children calling Mom to wish her happy Mother’s Day. There was never a story about the number of people calling Dad.

And there were usually more ads suggesting gifts for Mom than for Dad on their special days. It seemed that by all measures, Mother’s Day was a bigger blast than Father’s Day.

And that seemed to be the natural order of things. I mean, whoever heard of a father lion attacking to defend his cubs. It’s always the mother.

It’s only been in my old age that I realized that macro-statistics and retail attention really don’t say much about the importance of Father’s Day. I don’t think I ever resented the day’s second-class status, but if I did, I know that I was wrong. The important part of Father’s Day happened every year.

My children—and now my grandchildren—recognized that I have been a part of their lives, and they said that they were grateful.

That, to me, is as good as it needs to get.

I hope I communicated that to my dad. I’m not sure, because his birthday was usually just days away from Father’s Day; he got an all-purpose gift to cover both days, and I don’t remember including my thanks to him for all that he had done for me while I was growing up. He not only taught me the subtleties of baseball, but he provided a living example of what a real man was. If we had been Jewish, he would have been a mensch.

He did not ask for much, and he gave all that he could. He and mother raised three boys and provided them with opportunities far beyond the family's means. There was something Sisyphean about Dad’s life. For as long as I could remember, he (and a multitude of other fathers) got up every morning and put their shoulder to the stone, knowing that after the end that week, there would come the beginning of another with exactly the same challenges.

I’m no poet, but years ago, I was moved to write what I passed off as a poem about this. It’s entitled “When the Eagle Flaps Its Wings.” For those who don’t recognize the phrase, it’s the cleaned-up version of a slang term for payday. Since Dad did not curse or use vulgarities, this is the version he always used.

It’s below.

On a Saturday,

a little after noon,

Eleanor passed out the envelopes.

Skinny brown envelopes

only a little wider than a dollar bill

and not much thicker.

He’d take the envelope,

put the change in his pocket

and the bills in his wallet

and start down Main St,

to the grocery store every week,

to the dry goods store most every week,

and to the cleaners, the drug store,

and the hardware store

when it was their turn.

It seemed like a long walk,

and there was always too much

Main Street, but

everybody greeted him, talked about

the crops and the weather, and asked

about the family

because they knew who he was,

and they knew that every week,

the eagle flapped its wings.

Happy Father’s Day to all the fathers who got up every morning and did one more thing to make the lives of their families better, along with hope that they recognize that good children grown to good adults are the best of Father’s Day gifts.