My father became a bra*-burning feminist sometime in the very early 70s. He did this for very practical reasons: 1) it made sense in a strict constitutional and philosophical sense and 2) he had three daughters.
My father never stopped opening doors ("ladies first") or standing any time a woman left a room or a table or arrived at either. And for every equal hire he made, for every way he supported Title 9 or defended his position to any chauvinist around, he could become completely incensed at a bra*-strap that dared peek out. A man has his limits, after all; a woman should, too.
My father turned 70 this weekend. His three daughters, neither of whom currently hold a paying job by the way and about whom he is undauntedly proud, met up in New York, hopped a few flights to South Carolina -- thanks to the generosity of a woman who will never be a step mother but is (at last) a friend -- and surprised that Old Man while wearing Mardi Gras masks in public.
I know he was surprised for one reason and one only: he did not stand when we revealed ourselves at his table. He did not rise to greet us or to hold out our chairs: he just sat there.
This from a man who has pulled off more pranks than Ashton. Convincing a Canadian restaurant staff that he and a friend (both dressed like sheiks) were emirates from abroad? Their ridiculously fake Farsi sealed the deal on that one -- 4-star service all the way. Arriving at the airport to pick up a college freshman? In a Santa suit? My sister never lived that one down. Starting the Worm Defense Fund on the fly at a cocktail party when an obnoxious neighbor was incensed that "ALL the cats were killing ALL the birds"? That was a particularly good one. (I really disliked those neighbors.)
But my father? He has never been punked. I am pretty sure it took him a solid sixty minutes to realize what was actually happening (his three daughters! his three sometimes distant daughters! all there in one place! for him!) but it took him much longer to get over his dismay at having been played.
My father lives on, seven decades in fact, and finally we three (plus one, his wife), finally -- we got him. Someone had to.
When he finally got his mojo back, we entertained him unknowingly: he furtively sat on his porch in the shade, listening, while we bobbed in the hot pool below him. Our non-stop chatter, our love of bacon and egg sandwiches pool-side (delivered!), our dirty jokes, our easy curse words, our ability to be both wildly independent and yet so committed to our kids and to our husbands and to each other all at once -- what a view he had, what insight! We talked and talked and drank and talked, and somewhere along the way, I gotta believe he realized that his vision of the future for us (and maybe for lots of women like us) was right here, was this, was we three floating and happy and opinionated and making all our random, sometimes shifty, sometimes grand plans for the road ahead.
Well, minus the peeing in the bushes story, which um, you know, that's not very lady like.
But we got him and we got him good.
All the best heiresses learn well from the master. Long live the master!
