“The most important thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”
-Theodore M. Hesburgh
Only when we get to a certain age can we begin to see patterns in our lives, those choices made and not made, just as we have to be a certain distance from the earth to see crop circles or S.O.S. spelled out on the beach in coconut husks by Gilligan or particle tracks.
Some patterns are big and noticeable, like the way Chuck Knoblauch used to screw up his face and fasten and refasten those batting gloves waiting for the pitch, always the same, a pattern anyone could see. And some patterns are small, unnoticeable to the naked eye, like the way I oh so subtly reach for Rice Krispie Treats when I’m stressed.
And so it is, from this vantage point of years and distance that I have discovered one of those subtle patterns that make up our days. As shocking as it will be to you, dear reader, I have discovered that I have a penchant for men named Johnny.
Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Unitas, Johnny Cash, Johnny Depp, Johnny-Billy-Bob Collins (okay, maybe that’s stretching it), and—most importantly—my own Mr. Brilliant, a man named – yes – Johnny.
It is this last Johnny for whom we baked a heart-shaped red velvet cake smothered in sprinkles for Father’s Day, and it is this last Johnny that I most adore, who is my heart,
my love, the man who makes me laugh, who sends me leaves and flowers wherever I am around the world, who takes Emma out with the telescope to see the stars, who makes architectural structures out of doughnuts and candles for Tessie’s breakfast, who wears diapers on his head while singing Tom Waits songs, who decorates the house like Streamer and Balloon Man on Crack for birthdays, who tapes lit candles to his head to make us all laugh.
We had an auspicious beginning, me and Johnny.
Years ago, when I checked into my hotel in Copenhagen, it was early morning. I was unprepared for the greeting I received there; suddenly, as I said my name, a phalanx of desk clerks appeared, all smiling and nodding in my direction. “So this is Ms Digh!” one of them exclaimed to the others. “We’ve all been waiting for you!”
I was mystified. Up all night on the flight over, I wondered quickly if I was hallucinating. Sure, I was in Copenhagen for a fascinating conference on modern human resources practices—my god, at the sheer beauty of that thought—but even so, I couldn’t imagine that this fact warranted such a reception.
Everywhere I traveled in the world, flowers awaited me. Not tidy predictable baskets of 1-800-flowers, but big odd beautiful gushing bouquets of unusual wild amazing flowers like something Jane Carroll would make, awaiting me in my room with a note that would both thrill me and make me laugh a big, jet-lagged laugh.
Johnny charmed front desk staffs in Moscow and Helsinki and Zagreb and Zurich and far beyond, not only getting them to order fantastical bouquets, but sometimes even convincing front desk clerks with no hotel gift shop to go out on their lunch hour to find a favorite magazine like The Economist (or, okay, let’s be honest: People magazine), buy it, bring it back to the hotel, and not only hold it for me, but pre-assign my room, put it under the pillow of the bed with a truffle or Kit-Kat bar or two, and arrange the flowers in the room for me.
After Emma was born, he would even get them to create a smaller bouquet with a note from her, too, and later still, Tess. Sometimes there were six bouquets of varying sizes: one from him, one from Emma, one from each cat and dog, all written in handwriting that suited the giver: paw prints, for example, typography that looked like scratch marks. How he got strangers to do these things all over the world, I’ll never know.
On one memorable trip, I arrived at o’dark-thirty in the morning into Stockholm and the young sleepless woman at the front desk smiled broadly, producing from beneath the counter an exquisitely detailed painting of flowers on an old piece of wood. “There was no florist open nearby,” she explained in her beautifully accented English. “So I painted this for you. It is from Johnny the Scientific Boy.”
It had started simply with leaves. Autumn leaves.
My friend Gay remembers it this way:
“Fall in Washington is always wonderful; it’s such a leafy city and some years the tree-lined streets are literally blazing with color. The first fall that John the Science Boy and Patti got together was one of our more brilliant seasons of color. And she missed it. As I recall, she was in London on business. And the man sent her AUTUMN LEAVES by Federal Express because he didn’t want her to miss that gorgeous Washington fall. He was living on Mintwood Place and that fall, Mintwood Place was particularly gorgeous. Walking from the bus stop on Columbia Road, you passed under a canopy of reds, yellows and oranges and it would have been hard to be so in love and not want to share those leaves with that person who made your heart hurt when she was away from you. But wanting to share and actually figuring out how to make that happen is what separates the men from the boys. And in this case…the man sent her leaves! Did I mention that I was married at the time–still am–to a great guy, and I remember saying that John the Science Boy was a man to leave your husband for. I was basing that mostly on the way that he smelled…a mingling of Fahrenheit cologne and old books. But when Patti met Rosemary and me at the Tabard Inn once she had returned from London …and, without a word emptied the FedEx packet out onto the little table…spreading the leaves before us with one sweeping motion…well, that sealed it. We pumped her for more information about the Science Boy. After all, we barely knew him and we wanted details, but she didn’t tell us a damn thing. It didn’t matter. The man sent her leaves.”
Rosemary remembers it this way:
“The exact quote was ‘The man sent her leaves!’ as you silently opened up your shoulder bag, removed a FedEx envelope and calmly spread the colorful fall leaves out on the tabletop, fanning them with your long fingers and beautiful nails…..all of this without a word in response to our heated entreaties: ‘Patti, how IS he, what’s the scoop, tell us, tell us all now!’ We could barely breathe from the romance.”
He still sends me leaves. He is the craziest, funniest, most dear man on the planet. And, in the spirit of the day we are celebrating, more to the point—he is a fantastical father, the best, like Daddy was.
So there, Johnny Depp and Johnny-Billy-Bob Collins. Step back.
Happy Father’s Day, Johnny the Science Boy, my Mr Brilliant. Your daughters so love you, but even they don’t yet know how very, very lucky they are.
~*~ 37 Days: Do it Now Challenge ~*~
Those leaves from many years ago are in a shadow box on our wall now, saved for the memory of that extraordinary action, the one that made me gasp in London, and that made Rosemary and Gay gasp when I got home.
FedEx leaves to someone. Create surprise. Or, since the season – at least in this hemisphere – might not support the gathering of leaves at the moment, send yourself instead. Or a seasonal, fleeting piece of your life that you want to share with them.
Tell someone today how much they mean to you. In a way they’ll remember.
Last year this time: Push up, not down, Don’t look at the postcard
Only when we get to a certain age can we begin to see patterns in our lives, those choices made and not made, just as we have to be a certain distance from the earth to see crop circles or S.O.S. spelled out on the beach in coconut husks by Gilligan or particle tracks.
Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Unitas, Johnny Cash, Johnny Depp, Johnny-Billy-Bob Collins (okay, maybe that’s stretching it), and—most importantly—my own Mr. Brilliant, a man named – yes – Johnny.
my love, the man who makes me laugh, who sends me leaves and flowers wherever I am around the world, who takes Emma out with the telescope to see the stars, who makes architectural structures out of doughnuts and candles for Tessie’s breakfast, who wears diapers on his head while singing Tom Waits songs, who decorates the house like Streamer and Balloon Man on Crack for birthdays, who tapes lit candles to his head to make us all laugh.
Everywhere I traveled in the world, flowers awaited me. Not tidy predictable baskets of 1-800-flowers, but big odd beautiful gushing bouquets of unusual wild amazing flowers like something Jane Carroll would make, awaiting me in my room with a note that would both thrill me and make me laugh a big, jet-lagged laugh. 
It had started simply with leaves. Autumn leaves.
Rosemary remembers it this way:
Those leaves from many years ago are in a shadow box on our wall now, saved for the memory of that extraordinary action, the one that made me gasp in London, and that made Rosemary and Gay gasp when I got home. 
