Donovan Kelly

We have lived on the Blue Ridge edge of Northern Virginia for only 35 years, making us Yankee newcomers among families who personally knew Lord Fairfax and the War of Northern Aggression.

Our children grew up in Virginia. They have assimilated to the point where they reject important elements of our Pennsylvania heritage, like scalloped potatoes and dark heavy winter clothing. They can say “up side the head” with conviction. We cannot.

So how do I explain to them my need to burn a stump on Father's Day?

Stump burning is what my father did on a Saturday morning. He would draw a small circle around the selected stump, raking away leaves that might spread the fire. He also drew a circle around his morning that said this time, this place, are mine. Enter, child, at your own risk.

Sometimes we approached the circle to deliver a message from the house. Often the response was a go-away grunt, or worse, a gruff reminder of some chores that needed doing far, far away from the circle of the stump.

And sometimes you were invited into the circle, to listen quietly to stories of a Dad long ago, of Dad as a boy scout on camping trips, or a record-setting high hurdles runner, promising art student, city champ tennis player, or a skilled craftsman with his own printing press and shop. Stories of a Dad long ago, before he had a leaky roof, five children and a factory job.

Sometimes you stood within the circle of Dad's stump, and just shared the silence, wrapped together in the primitive addiction to fire, moving wordlessly together to stay out of the smoke that could disrupt dreams.

He was a stern man who could suddenly break into a belly laugh and announce, "I just told myself a joke I never heard before." He could sing “Oh Donny Boy” to me—it was years before I learned it was really “Oh Danny Boy" -- in a beautiful voice that brought tears.

But Dad was not a hugger. He did not know how to hug his children or to say he was proud of us. The best he could do was to keep our dinner plates full and the rain off our heads. The most he could offer was to open up the circle around a slow-burning stump and let us share a bit of his world.

Now his children have become the older parents. Now we know how fast young dreams can wither and how much love it takes just to keep your children dry and fed. And that's why we stop to burn a stump on Father's Day.

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(Kelly writes from Hamilton, Va. Spare stumps can be sent to him at donovan@donovanwrites.com.)