Building Bonds

The Ties and Leashes That Bind Us

StandFast #24

Last week, I described the splendid hike in the Georgia woods that I recently took with my two sons. With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking about relationships between fathers and sons, and quickly realized that I could no more have imagined doing something like that with my own father than proposing that both of us swim from Pier C on the Hoboken docks where he worked across the Hudson River to Manhattan’s west side. His dispassionate character, combined with the reserved and inexpressive culture in which men lived back then, meant that our shared experiences were far more limited than those I have with my sons. In fact, I can’t list more than one. My father and I never grabbed baseball gloves and had a game of catch. We didn’t own fishing poles. He didn’t play board games. Helping me with my homework was my mother’s job.

Like my dad’s old DeSoto, this one has the kind of wide whitewalls that I scrubbed

What we did together was wash his car. Compared to today’s hyperactive father-son schedules, that seems reductive, even neglectful. But it wasn’t, not for me, and I think that long-ago chore actually reinforces the shared experiences theory that so intensified my brief Appalachian Trail hike with my sons and transformed it into something that, I hope, will live on in memories and retold tales for many, many years.

Mt father and I washed his car on Saturdays when he wasn’t working. Hoboken then wasn’t what Hoboken is now. The city’s gentrification and revival hadn’t yet started. The decline that preceded the turnaround wasn’t obvious yet either. In this cityside sweetspot, all the stores were open, all the factories hummed. Even the mill across the street that spun thread into sweaters and blouses had a few years left to go before it went dark.

Dad parked his hulking black 1950 DeSoto sedan in front of the house and had me pull the hose out of the basement. I had three older brothers, but I don’t remember them helping out very often. While my dad wet down the car, I brought out the zinc pail, sea sponges, and authentic chamois that he used, and the box of Brillo pads that were the tools of my trade.

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

My job was to swab the DeSoto’s fat whitewalls, a responsibility suited to the abilities of the eight-year-old I was then. Whitewalls disappeared from American autos years ago, but they made bold statements on cars for decades, up to and including my formative years. I can still feel the creamy, sticky, reddish soap foam of the Brillo pads in my hands as I scoured the tires. After I had worked on all four tires, my father came back around with the hose to wash off the soap.

It was rewarding in a peculiar way to watch the gleaming white stripes emerge from under the soap, just as it was disappointing to find that I had missed a spot where the stubborn grime held on fast. My father didn’t have to tell me to hit it again with the Brillo. I knew what he expected.

Those Saturdays were my introduction to the concept of male bonding. Instead of engaging in deeply personal conversations, my father and I, like many men, connected through sharing a specific task and seeing it through to completion. Studies show that men and boys can feel closest to each other when we do things together.

Now that I am a father, and my sons also are fathers, I’ve learned that the kind of bonding the sociologists study isn’t included in the basic package of instructions that comes with fatherhood. It is something that has to be worked on over time, and nurtured to make sure it continues to grow. It comes rather more easily for young boys, who naturally interact with their fathers. But those relationships begin to change in adolescence, and even more so later into adulthood. It survives only when it is painstakingly maintained and constantly nourished, something that I am reluctant to admit I did not realize then, and did not pursue with him when I had the chance.

My dad and I looking sharp for some special occasion I don’t recall

As I sauntered with my sons during our recent Georgia hike, I had plenty of time to reflect on my relationship with my own dad, and how different that is from the relationship I have with my sons. At the same time, as I watched them walk and listened to them talking about their own children, it was clear to me how different their family relationships are from those I had formed with them when they were small. Because they have advanced toward their professional peaks so much more quickly than I did, they have more time to share with their own children. And I am so deeply grateful for that.

I should make clear that this concept of sharing experiences and the benefits that come with doing so are not limited to male bonding. Along with my two sons, I have a daughter, and fortunately for my wife and me, Laura Felice lives just a few minutes away, which means that we see her often. I’ve tried to find the same kind of shared experiences with her as with her brothers. We hike together, often with our dogs. She owns her own home, and we’ve tackled many DIY home improvement projects together.

And yes, on occasion, we have washed cars together. There are no whitewalls to scour, and I don’t think either of us has used a Brillo pad for ages. But when the hose comes out, along with the synthetic sponges and microfiber drying cloths, something special happens, something I hope will linger in memories and oft-told tales, for a very long time.