Father's day.
Yesterday.
Much longer ago, when I was in
first or second grade,
we had a book that read:
Mor ror, far är rar.
I always found that line
sounding a bit strange.
I'm sure those of you who don't
read Swedish find it even more strange.
A direct translation would be:
Mother rows, father is nice.
It wasn't that my aba wasn't nice and sweet.
He was the sweetest.
But my mom never did row a boat.
We had row boats where I grew up.
And plenty of water.
The North Sea.
We often went out fishing
mackerel, codfish, flounder or whiting.
We caught crabs and the occasional lobster.
Picked oysters and mussels.
And we threw jelly fish at the girls.
I'm not sure any of those species are
easily found in Central Park however.
Rowing is.
Father does the rowing.
The wrong way.
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