From the Editor

By Stephen Harris

From the Editor, SuperDad, For Now...

My son Ben and I recently survived our second annual camping trip at Acadia National Park, about three hours north of our home. It being only our second trip there, it was quite an adventure. This year, Maine was under a Red Flag warning, meaning we were not allowed to have a campfire, which is one of the things Ben looks forward to most. But we brought our bikes, and went on an 11 mile ride, with a climb up Mt. Penobscot in the middle. We were pretty glad to get back to the car, and our stash of cookies and milk in the cooler.

We had a great time, despite the lack of open flame. There was an afternoon spent climbing around some spectacular rocks and cliffs by the sea, and a climb up South Bubble Rock, both of which would have made Mom shudder. On the way home, we stopped at Fort Knox, a Civil War era granite fort overlooking Bucksport and the Penobscot River. There was a Civil War battle reenactment, which we missed, but we got to see all the people dressed up as soldiers and civilians, and there was more dangerous climbing up on things, followed by a big lunch on a restaurant terrace overlooking the river. We were glad to have been away, just us two, and glad to finally be heading home.

The day after we got back, I was puttering around, unpacking the car and stowing our camping gear, and thinking back over the weekend. What struck me most sharply was the sense that, to Ben, I was the Most Amazing Father, the Infallible and Mighty One. Heck, I had improvised a frying pan out of tin foil to replace the real one I'd forgotten to pack. And I got us over the mountain bike ride and back to our car, and even had cookies and milk waiting there. I'd planned the weekend (though most of it was serendipity), I'd fed him, kept him safe, and gotten him back home. I had protected him and guided him, and for that I was enthroned on a dais worthy of Zeus himself. It had made me feel pretty good to have Ben so openly proud and in awe of my quite ordinary accomplishments. Heaven knows how little we get of that in our day-to-day.

But as I thought about this, I realized with no little sadness that as high as he had raised me, it would only be that far to fall when he discovered that I am simply a human dad. He has his disappointments that I am responsible for, but there will come a day when I will fail him mightily, and on that day my dais and throne will come crashing down, leaving both of us surrounded by the rubble of his childhood. I know how much it hurts me to let him down these days; I can only imagine how it will feel when the Big Tumble hits.

I realize also that my daughter Robin must have similar illusions about me. Hers are more likely of the romantic type, I imagine, and she is less demonstrative about them. As she gets older, she will let me know the design and altitude of her own special throne for me, and I will gladly assume my position, knowing full well that our relationship is doomed, as it is with Ben, to collapse with a loud noise.

I suppose the true measure of a father-child relationship is what comes after the fall. While I fear that cataclysm, I know it is inevitable, and I am pretty confident that something deeper and stronger will arise from the debris, and we will perhaps be able to face each other as equals, and mortals.

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