Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

POP PSYCHOLOGY
What a fashion sense he had,
Mixing stripes and checks with plaid!
And the jokes that he told,
All so corny and old!
How I miss my dear old dad!

From the archive:

THE INVISIBLE MAN
Someone opened a devilish door
Without caring what might lie in store:
Disconnected from “donors,”
Single mothers are loners
And their kids don’t have dads anymore.
(2010)

FATHER TIME
Twenty years ago I lost my dad
And the loss to this day makes me sad,
But I’m glad he was there
In my formative years
And can cherish the time that we had.
(2009)

POOR DAD
“I’ve been poor since the day of my birth
And may die with a negative worth;
Though I live on the skids,
With my wonderful kids,
I’m the wealthiest man on the earth!”
(2007)

FATHERS STAY
The third Sunday in June will be gray
For the sons and the daughters who may
Not remember the dad
That they never quite had
’Cause he left them and went far away.
(2006)

Last week’s limerick:

DREAMS FROM MY MOTHER
Though the leader in question was hesitant
To discuss where his parents were resident,
Still his mother was smitten
By a subject of Britain
And young Winston could never be president.

My papa was a great old man. I can see him with a shovel in his hand. – Clarence Carter

L: Pop ponders how to pick pod from 15-ft. okra stalk (NOLA, c 1968) R: Son with shovel in hand (Brockton, Mass., 1986)

They didn’t call me “Patches” when I was young (why, I don’t know), but I can see my father with a shovel in his hand, and he was a great old man. If he were still alive, he’d be 89 now. He died just after Christmas in 1990. I was working in Appleton, Wisconsin at the time and flew down to New Orleans for the funeral in January. Upon my return, I was fired. 1991 was getting off to a good start.

For as long as I can remember, my dad always had a garden, a vegetable garden, with okra and tomatoes mostly, and whatever he felt like adding in any given year: bell peppers, eggplant, sweet potatoes, carrots, etc. Whence the shovel, which, as I got older, was more often in my hand than his. He was the one who liked okra and tomatoes, but, somehow, it was me who got to do all the digging and weeding. For years I dreamed of escaping from the gumbo plantation and making my way along the suburban white kid’s underground railroad to store-bought food and freedom. Which I eventually did. Funny thing, though. One day, at the ripe age of 30, I finally got married and bought a house with a nice little side yard that just cried out for — a garden! Ever since, I’ve grown okra and tomatoes just like the old man; and some day my kids will remember me, I hope, with a shovel in my hand.

These are a few of my favorite priests: Fr. Jacques, who taught me geometry in high school and once sent me to “punish hall” for wearing argyle socks; Fr. Mike Alchediak, who heard my confession the day before my wedding and preached a sermon on the Prodigal Son the next day; Fr. Tonner, his concelebrant, who christened my wife as an infant and 27 years later gave our eldest daughter her First Communion; Frs. Perrin and LeBlanc, co-pastors at Sacre Coeur Church in Brockton, Mass., our first parish as a married couple; Fr. Quilligan, who brought my father-in-law back into the Church on his deathbed; and Frs. Benedict and Ralph at St. Anselm in Creve Coeur MO, our current parish, who between them have given First Communion to five of our six kids.

Feel free to publish, post, or pass on Your Weekly Politickle by F.R. Duplantier:

THE INVISIBLE MAN
Someone opened a devilish door
Without caring what might lie in store:
Disconnected from “donors,”
Single mothers are loners
And their kids don’t have dads anymore.

From the archive:

FATHER TIME
Twenty years ago I lost my dad
And the loss to this day makes me sad,
But I’m glad he was there
In my formative years
And can cherish the time that we had.
(2009)

POOR DAD
“I’ve been poor since the day of my birth
And may die with a negative worth;
Though I live on the skids,
With my wonderful kids,
I’m the wealthiest man on the earth!”
(2007)

FATHERS STAY
The third Sunday in June will be gray
For the sons and the daughters who may
Not remember the dad
That they never quite had
’Cause he left them and went far away.
(2006)

Last week’s limerick:

BP/D
As our nation reacts to the Spill
And Obama decides not to drill,
Hugo Chavez, the sheiks,
And those climate-change freaks
Like Al Gore and Prince Charles are athrill.

Peace to you and your lovely family! Some times you make me laugh. Today you made me reflect, on my own dad. You dads are awesome. Thanks for what you do. You are “what’s right with America” (the name of my next book). My cap is off to you. — Fathiyyah

This was a good week for feedback. Got the note above from one of my favorite longtime subscribers, in response to the Father’s Day limerick I sent out Monday:

FATHER TIME
Twenty years ago I lost my dad
And the loss to this day makes me sad,
But I’m glad he was there
In my formative years
And can cherish the time that we had.

And this note came in from another longtime subscriber, who’d fallen off my list in January after changing email addresses:

Am I still on your list? Or have you quit posting them? The last one I received was in January. I enjoy them so well, I hate to not receive them any more. — Odell

Odell is back on the list, and catching up on missed Politickles in my 2009 archive.

To the Most Holy Virgin I entrust this Year for Priests. I ask her to awaken in the heart of every priest a generous and renewed commitment to the ideal of complete self-oblation to Christ and the Church which inspired the thoughts and actions of the saintly Curé of Ars. It was his fervent prayer life and his impassioned love of Christ Crucified that enabled John Mary Vianney to grow daily in his total self-oblation to God and the Church. May his example lead all priests to offer that witness of unity with their Bishop, with one another and with the lay faithful, which today, as ever, is so necessary. Despite all the evil present in our world, the words which Christ spoke to his Apostles in the Upper Room continue to inspire us: “In the world you have tribulation; but take courage, I have overcome the world” (Jn 16:33). Our faith in the Divine Master gives us the strength to look to the future with confidence. Dear priests, Christ is counting on you. In the footsteps of the Curé of Ars, let yourselves be enthralled by him. In this way you too will be, for the world in our time, heralds of hope, reconciliation and peace! – “Proclaiming a Year for Priests,” Pope Benedict XVI

These are a few of my favorite priests: Fr. Jacques, who taught me geometry in high school and once sent me to “punish hall” for wearing argyle socks; Fr. Mike Alchediak, who heard my confession the day before my wedding and preached a sermon on the Prodigal Son the next day; Fr. Tonner, his concelebrant, who christened my wife as an infant and 27 years later gave our eldest daughter her First Communion; Frs. Perrin and LeBlanc, co-pastors at Sacre Coeur Church in Brockton, Mass., our first parish as a married couple; Fr. Quilligan, who brought my father-in-law back into the Church on his deathbed; and Frs. Benedict and Ralph at St. Anselm in Creve Coeur MO, our current parish, who between them have given First Communion to five of our six kids.

The Wonder Kid

by Père Robért
(for Maria, Ida, Isabel, Maxine, Crozet, and Audrey)

It’s tough sometimes to be a dad,
Especially when your kid is bad.
You wonder why she did what she did
– And why she’s not a wonder kid.

A wonder kid is always good.
A wonder kid does what she should.
A wonder kid is never bad.
A wonder kid makes daddies glad.

She doesn’t shout, she doesn’t fight,
She goes to bed on time each night.
She makes her bed, she eats her peas,
She always says, “yes, sir” and “please.”

She never whines and never mopes.
She likes to bathe, and uses soap.
She chews her food, she doesn’t slurp,
And when she’s through she doesn’t burp.

She wears her mittens when it freezes.
She’s kind to pets and never teases.
She cares for toys and likes to share them.
Her clothes get cleaner as she wears them.

“Did you ever hear of such a kid?”
I asked my kid, who never did.
And then, oh boy, was I surprised
When my little girl apologized:

“I’m sorry for the thing I did.
I wish I were a wonder kid.
I wish that I could make you glad.
I love you so, my wonder Dad.”

I hemmed and hawed, I coughed and sputtered,
The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.
I’d focused on her faults, but she
Had only seen the good in me.

It’s tough sometimes to be a kid,
Especially when Dad blows his lid.
You wonder how he gets that way,
And why he takes so long to say:

“I love you too, I’m really glad
To know you think I’m a wonder dad,
And I wouldn’t change you, not a bit –
You already are a wonder kid.”

Copyright ©1992, F.R. Duplantier

My Dad