Louise T. Guinther

I always liked Father’s Day. Even though the father in question in our household preferred to spend it doing a lot of strenuous outdoor chores, there was a celebratory feel to the whole day. We all knew how hard Dad worked to keep us such a happy family, so we felt he deserved our full attention, at least for those twenty-four hours. One of the unwritten rules was that we kids had to be on hand to help with the big project of the day — building a shed in the driveway for our bicycles; erecting a new swing; painting the back porch — but there was always a nice lunch break (BLTs, Dad’s favorite‚ at the picnic table in the back yard, with Coca-cola in real Coke glasses and potato chips on the side), and the day ended with a swanky dinner, sometimes out at some famous old New York restaurant, sometimes at home, cooked up on the grill. When we ate in, dessert would be a cantaloupe pie, something Dad had had in a restaurant long ago and never forgotten. I don’t think our attempts at reproducing it ever quite worked, but he always pretended to love it anyway.

Father’s Day gifts ranged widely: there was always a necktie, usually floral, and sometimes a new pair of garters. (My father wore his dress socks properly gartered long after the rest of the world had gone over to modern stretch socks, and we learned early that at Brooks Brothers, you had to ask for “suspenders,” not garters; if you wanted what we Yanks call suspenders, you asked for “braces.”) Sometimes Dad got a new power tool, or a bottle of one of his favorite scents — 4711 Ice, Royall Lime or, best of all (and now discontinued, alas), Guerlain Extra Dry, which made him smell a little like a particularly refreshing martini. Most years, he also got some home-made candied grapefruit rind, another one of those treats my father adored but hardly anybody else had ever heard of.

Despite suffering from bipolar disorder, my father gave us the happiest childhood any kid could ever hope for. Dad is gone now, but I still celebrate Father’s Day by remembering all the ways in which he made life worth living. If there are any fathers out there who are new at the game, or running out of ideas, here’s a sampling from Dad’s playbook of how to raise a happy kid.

• Expect a lot, but demand nothing: Our father knew us well. He knew what we were good at, which subjects we were smart at, and how much we could achieve if we tried our best. He also knew what we liked to do, what we were interested in and what bored us to tears. We knew he knew, and we tried not to disappoint those high expectations, but we also knew that if we fell short, there would be no repercussions, no diminishment of the love, only a new expectation that we’d do better next time, if we could. And we knew he was proud of us even when we failed.

• Be the fun dad, at least some of the time: Take them to the beach — it doesn’t matter whether it’s Coney Island or Zach’s Bay or some ritzy Hampton destination. What matters is that you leave your inhibitions at home and indulge in the maximum amount of silliness. If your hair is thinning (or even if it isn’t), borrow a wig from a mermaid, or maybe a mustache from a clam.

• Expand their horizons: Don’t just go with the trend of the moment. Give them an interesting birthday party. Dad once spent a week rigging the house with different-colored strings, one for each party guests, that we were supposed to follow through the thicket to the end on a three-story treasure hunt. In the event, all the strings got tangled up and fell down before anyone got anywhere near their prize, but I’ll bet nobody who attended that birthday party ever forgot it. I certainly didn’t.

• Surprise them: When their favorite team wins the World Series, and they’re watching the locker-room celebration on TV, pour an actual bottle of champagne over their heads, right there in your living room, to give them the sensation of being there. (I realize that some of these suggestions call for a particularly forbearing and good-humored mother; luckily, we happened to have that too.

• Teach them what you know: Dad never succeeded in making a real carpenter out of me, but a couple of years ago, when I wanted a bespoke bookshelf, I was able (with the help of a patient and generous friend) to channel Dad’s skills and aesthetic sensibilities to make exactly what I wanted, and just like Dad, I liked it the better for having made it (mostly) myself.

• Go fly a kite: Don’t worry too much about how long it stays aloft, but make sure it’s a distinctive kite — one you can enjoy spending time with and be recognized by whether it gets off the ground or not. Ideally, you and the kids can make one together. Then if it actually does fly, it will be an extra thrill.

• Don’t let up on the love: Every day, when my father came home from work, he kissed my mother hello. Every Valentine’s Day, there were flowers and a big heart-shaped box of chocolates (which he always took Jo and me to pick out at Hannah Krause’s chocolate shop: it was a gift from all of us). Every wedding anniversary came with a gift and a dinner out. It wasn’t any less romantic because we kids got to come along. Every parting or arrival called for a hug and a kiss. There was never any sense of “been there, done that”: every moment was its own chance to remind the people in his life how much he cared.

There are plenty more ideas left in the Dad playbook, but this is getting long, so I’ll save them for another Father’s Day. I will end by saying that the greatest gift our father gave us was genuine interest in his children — our lives, our passions, our friends. Though he was always ready and willing to guide us, he was equally willing to follow along as we chose our own paths, and to find something worthwhile on the journey even if we just ended up turning back again.