When my son was in about second grade, he made me a bookmark that features a sort of ransom note version of the words "Happy Father's Day." The paper is bright orange (his favorite color at the time), and his teacher laminated the finished product in clear plastic to protect it from the beer and coffee stains we fathers can be counted on to get all over our things.

My son, who is now 29 and has been out of second grade for a while, might be surprised to learn that I still have that bookmark - although, at the moment it is stuck in one of the stack of books I'm working my way through, and I haven't seen it in a couple of weeks.

There are a few things I have been called in my life that I really enjoy. "Honey" is fun when you get it from a super friendly (and usually equally voluminous) waitress in a Waffle House, and even better from the woman you've been married to for nearly 35 years. "Mate" is nice when spoken by either my friend from Australia or my friend from Cornwall, England. "Coach" is great to be called by a bunch of sincere and smelly little hockey players flopping around an ice rink at 6:30 in the morning.

But the best thing I've ever been called is, "Father." Likewise, "Dad," "Pop," "Daddy," "Papa," and even, under the right circumstances, "Old Man."

So now all of us Old Men are bracing ourselves for Father's Day and the annual onslaught of sincerely bought humorous barbecue aprons, sincerely chosen humorous greeting cards, and if we are very, very fortunate, sincerely made lopsided coffee mugs that made it out of the kiln just in the nick of time before Summer Break.

The weekend has already started off with a fair amount of excitement. On Friday night we had a storm with "near hurricane-force winds," which was for the most part pretty entertaining. The power went out right away, giving us the opportunity to play with candles, the lightning was festive without hitting any of our stuff, and the whole thing scared the hairballs out of Libby the Psychotic Cat. What could be better than that?

On the down side, when we went out Saturday morning we discovered that a big chunk of the neighbor's maple tree had squished the roof of Nan's car, "Gracie."

As I was out there in the driveway, sweeping up splintered bits of maple tree and Gracie and wondering when the power might come back on, I realized that I was completely immersed in my "Dad" element; like most guys, I'm never happier than when I'm horsing around with something inanimate.

Once I got my own wreckage under control, I took some time to wander around the rest of our storm-tossed little town. Everywhere I went, I saw women standing in little groups and talking quietly, sharing their feelings about the storm or their losses, or at least making sure that everyone had all the details straight.

At the same time the men were happily swarming over the downed trees with chain saws and axes. Taking care of the inanimate stuff. Not much conversation going on, but a whole lot of noise.

And I realized that this was a great way to explain why moms like to get flowers for Mother's Day, while all us dads are hoping for a power drill. You see, moms are always on duty to take care of the bruised shins and broken hearts. They kiss all the boo-boos and make them better.

Dads are in charge of the sump pump.

And you know what? That seems to work out just fine for everyone. Happy Father's Day, guys!

Copyright © 2010, Michael Ball

Mike Ball is the Erma Bombeck Award-winning author of "What I've Learned So Far..." and the book What I've Learned So Far... Part I: Bikes, Docks & Slush Nuggets.