Daughter’s Suitors Face Trial By Sire

My mind was wandering during the interminable 500-yard boys’ freestyle event at a high school swim meet the other night, when I looked to the end of the pool and saw a tall, handsome, well-muscled boy sitting next to the girl who was handling the lap marker at the end of one of the lanes.

My daughter, Libby, was the girl. She was between events and volunteered to hold the numbered marker against the wall to help the swimmer keep track of where he was in the midst of the 20-lap event.

Before the race, the meet director had announced that only the designated lap marker could occupy the space at the end of each lane - obviously, to prevent visitations that could distract from an accurate accounting of laps.

When I saw the boy nudging needlessly close to Libby’s seated frame, I brought the infraction to the attention of the meet director: “Hey, Rob. Get that guy off the bulkhead.”

In the same breath, I followed spontaneously with a remark arising from some primal paternal depth, and exposing my true motivations for demanding strict adherence to the rules: “He’s trying to put the moves on my daughter!”

The admonition duly delivered over the public-address system, the lad retreated and a father’s consolation was restored. At least for the moment.

At 15, Libby no doubt is vexed by having to endure this maddening protective quirk that surfaces in her daddy at the slightest mention of the approach of a young member of the male persuasion toward her company.

Frequently, as she has blossomed into feminine pulchritude and experienced that inevitable arrival of boys at the door, I have expressed the same sentiment that Shakespeare’s Hamlet directed to Ophelia: “Get thee to a nunnery.”

But she is resigned - at least for the moment - to making the best of her father’s weirdness by making certain that her “friends” be prepared for what they should expect to encounter once they cross the threshold into her home. This includes a thorough briefing of any would-be caller as to the standards of dress and deportment and the rituals of trial by interrogation to which they will be subjected.

First, no one crosses the threshold wearing a hat, a solemn courtesy that has fallen into slovenly, unmannerly neglect in the current age. No properly reared mother’s son, of any age, wears a hat indoors.

Nor shall any shirttail be deprived of its rightful, neatly tucked place within the waistband of the pants. One recent visitor protested after Libby stopped him short on the front walkway, but she insisted that the tucking commence if he knew what was good for him. He tucked.

Yet the true test of worthiness to share the company of my daughter lies in a demonstration of character. Gleaning the ulterior motives of young, hormone-energized males is not a perfect science, but the steady firmness of a handshake, the direct focus of eye-to-eye contact and a forthright response to pointed questions provide some useful, if unconscious, indicators for a discerning father trying to take a fellow’s measure.

Nervousness in young suitors is not a detriment. They’re supposed to be a little nervous, if only to dispel a suspicion that they lack sufficient respect for the importance that fathers place on respecting their interest in safeguarding a daughter’s welfare as well as her affections.

The whole object, really, is to make them nervous, to subject them to a tempering in the fire of paternal scrutiny. A young man should understand the seriousness of the special privilege that he seeks. In Libby’s den, that requires answering clipped questions about what books he likes to read, who his heroes are and what he expects to make of his life. Bonus points accrue for elocutionary and grammatical precision.

In Libby’s den, these sessions are conducted with a studied blend of stern seriousness and mild conviviality by a man who has been a boy himself, tossed amid the turmoil of emotional discovery and confusing, mysterious impulses. If the techniques seem to be a little challenging, perhaps a little abruptly sobering for adolescent minds preoccupied by the rush of infatuation, then, in the current popular idiom, I say to the suitors, to Libby and to any other impatient critic: Deal with it.

You’ve got to be the father of a precious daughter to understand: It’s a daddy thing.

xxxx

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Tommy Denton Fort Worth Star-Telegram