What
do I say about Dad? I loved him so much. He was a sweet, red-headed
guy. Smart, humble and loving. And he bathed regularly. That counted in
my book. He also loved his daughters. Very much. I remember sitting
in his lap and playing with his ‘Brill Cream’ saturated hair till it
stood on end. (Gee, are you noticing the hair obsession again? I never
noticed this before!) He was endlessly patient with my sister
and I. He encouraged rather than laying down the law. And he had a
huge influence on us as a result.
Dad never actually set a curfew with me. At least one that I remember. But I still managed to come home in a reasonable time period. There was something about an expectation. Deep down, I knew what was reasonable. And I knew what he would approve of. Because of that, I did what I thought he would want. And was home on time. Or I told him why I wasn’t home because I didn’t want him to worry. Did that work with the areas I was struggling with? He did encourage. But he didn’t always push at the times he needed to. As I have said previously, he hid out sometimes. Simply because he was miserable. I get that now because I get how ‘good’ parenting is sometimes connected to stability in life. As a single parent, I struggled to do the right things on my own. Or to have the energy to do them during the tough times. His struggle was a bit different from mine, but it was a big one. (I want you to understand that I was kept in line by his expectations. No drug use. But I did go out and do more drinking than maybe I should have. I was out later at those times. But that happened when I was older. And he kept letting me know that there was a limit. My risk-taking behavior with substances of any kind was far less than my peers. I credit him for that.)
Dad was an accountant who gave up his CPA. He didn’t get the CPA because of his need to focus on supporting his family. He was highly intellectual. I thought of him as a “college professor” type most of the time. He read “War and Peace” over and over. If you know how big and complex “War and Peace” is, you would know what an accomplishment that is. And what happened to his copy of “War and Peace” also points out the painful part of his life. My Mom tore up his copy of War and Peace. To hurt him. For no other reason. To make it even more painful for him, it had been lent to him by a friend. Our home was a battleground for him. He would do anything to escape it. He would work. And because the tax season would keep any accountant busy, he had ready-made times that would be a perfect reason to do so. Or he would sit and watch TV. Almost seemed like he was shutting out the painful parts of his existence. (He loved Shakespeare. My Aunt told me that he could quote it verbatim and discuss the meaning behind it with all the insight of a literature professor.) He (and in all fairness my Mom) introduced me to an appreciation of art. I learned about Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, etc. because he purchased the books that I could learn from. He (and my Mom) encouraged my love of music. And exposed me to classical and folk music. He also exposed me to jazz, which to this day is one of my passions in life. I remember one time that he “forced” me to go see Duke Ellington in a free concert. I didn’t want to go. I was 13 years old and not the least bit interested. I wanted to see The Osmonds and Bobby Sherman instead. LOL! But by the end of the Duke Ellington concert, I was dancing in the aisles. He also spent some great time interacting with me. I remember a ‘date’ with my Dad when he took me to see a community theatre production of “South Pacific”. And he took me to a fancy restaurant after. It was one of the most important and memorable experiences of my life.
He also encouraged my love of politics. He supported my political activity. He was standing there and smiling at me when I told my Uncle T. that he was racist and sexist. Dad told me one time that he probably wouldn’t bail me out of jail for a DUI, but he would if I was arrested at a protest. I learned a lot from that statement alone. Even in the hospital, he encouraged my political ideas and actions. He once told me to wear a McGovern T-shirt to the hospital. Just so I could argue with his nurse who was a huge fan of President Nixon. Sick and in bed because of a heart-attack, he still wanted me to think and discuss my viewpoint.
He had a lot of health issues. He had severe arthritis. I was told that he was hospitalized for a year after his service in WW2. (My Mom and Dad were dating at that time. And he broke up with her for a period of time when she dated his doctor.) He had heart disease and diabetes. My childhood can be seen in a timeline punctuated by hospital stays. And he dealt with nerve damage before he died. He experienced excruciating pain before his death at 56 years old. Way too young. I still miss him.
In spite of the detachment I felt from him when he was hiding out, I loved any time he spent with me. I also spent most of my teenage years a little bit angry that he stuck it out with my Mom. I wanted the same for him that I wanted for myself. A normal life. (What is normal?) It sounds kind of strange to say right now, but I was thrilled when he gave me any indication that he was a normal man with normal desires. One time, when he was in his 50’s, he scratched up the door of our car when he was paying more attention to a woman that he was looking at, then he paid to what he was doing. I loved it! I wanted him to have love in his life.
What I didn’t recognize was the love that he did have. He did love my Mom. Certainly not her illness. After my sister and I moved out, he had some space and time with her all alone. They seemed to reconnect during that time period. My Aunt told me about that after his death. She said that even with my Mom’s still evident mental illness, things had suddenly calmed down. They were together emotionally, if not physically. (Nobody would have a physical relationship with a woman who didn’t bathe. I don’t think.) Not as much screaming and fighting. More co-existing. Even some conversation and interaction.
I am going to tell you one more Dad story to conclude this article. When he died, my Aunt told me he was a war hero. He was a silver medalist who killed five Germans and captured twenty-one others. All by himself….”with no regard for his safety”…..as his notification of award says. My Dad was all about peace. I could see why he wouldn’t share his war experiences with me. Being a war hero wouldn’t have been something he would have thought would be worthy of celebrating. At least his heroism. Instead, he would celebrate any efforts that anybody made to establish peace and justice. He was humble. Truly a man of vision……
Dad never actually set a curfew with me. At least one that I remember. But I still managed to come home in a reasonable time period. There was something about an expectation. Deep down, I knew what was reasonable. And I knew what he would approve of. Because of that, I did what I thought he would want. And was home on time. Or I told him why I wasn’t home because I didn’t want him to worry. Did that work with the areas I was struggling with? He did encourage. But he didn’t always push at the times he needed to. As I have said previously, he hid out sometimes. Simply because he was miserable. I get that now because I get how ‘good’ parenting is sometimes connected to stability in life. As a single parent, I struggled to do the right things on my own. Or to have the energy to do them during the tough times. His struggle was a bit different from mine, but it was a big one. (I want you to understand that I was kept in line by his expectations. No drug use. But I did go out and do more drinking than maybe I should have. I was out later at those times. But that happened when I was older. And he kept letting me know that there was a limit. My risk-taking behavior with substances of any kind was far less than my peers. I credit him for that.)
Dad was an accountant who gave up his CPA. He didn’t get the CPA because of his need to focus on supporting his family. He was highly intellectual. I thought of him as a “college professor” type most of the time. He read “War and Peace” over and over. If you know how big and complex “War and Peace” is, you would know what an accomplishment that is. And what happened to his copy of “War and Peace” also points out the painful part of his life. My Mom tore up his copy of War and Peace. To hurt him. For no other reason. To make it even more painful for him, it had been lent to him by a friend. Our home was a battleground for him. He would do anything to escape it. He would work. And because the tax season would keep any accountant busy, he had ready-made times that would be a perfect reason to do so. Or he would sit and watch TV. Almost seemed like he was shutting out the painful parts of his existence. (He loved Shakespeare. My Aunt told me that he could quote it verbatim and discuss the meaning behind it with all the insight of a literature professor.) He (and in all fairness my Mom) introduced me to an appreciation of art. I learned about Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, etc. because he purchased the books that I could learn from. He (and my Mom) encouraged my love of music. And exposed me to classical and folk music. He also exposed me to jazz, which to this day is one of my passions in life. I remember one time that he “forced” me to go see Duke Ellington in a free concert. I didn’t want to go. I was 13 years old and not the least bit interested. I wanted to see The Osmonds and Bobby Sherman instead. LOL! But by the end of the Duke Ellington concert, I was dancing in the aisles. He also spent some great time interacting with me. I remember a ‘date’ with my Dad when he took me to see a community theatre production of “South Pacific”. And he took me to a fancy restaurant after. It was one of the most important and memorable experiences of my life.
He also encouraged my love of politics. He supported my political activity. He was standing there and smiling at me when I told my Uncle T. that he was racist and sexist. Dad told me one time that he probably wouldn’t bail me out of jail for a DUI, but he would if I was arrested at a protest. I learned a lot from that statement alone. Even in the hospital, he encouraged my political ideas and actions. He once told me to wear a McGovern T-shirt to the hospital. Just so I could argue with his nurse who was a huge fan of President Nixon. Sick and in bed because of a heart-attack, he still wanted me to think and discuss my viewpoint.
He had a lot of health issues. He had severe arthritis. I was told that he was hospitalized for a year after his service in WW2. (My Mom and Dad were dating at that time. And he broke up with her for a period of time when she dated his doctor.) He had heart disease and diabetes. My childhood can be seen in a timeline punctuated by hospital stays. And he dealt with nerve damage before he died. He experienced excruciating pain before his death at 56 years old. Way too young. I still miss him.
In spite of the detachment I felt from him when he was hiding out, I loved any time he spent with me. I also spent most of my teenage years a little bit angry that he stuck it out with my Mom. I wanted the same for him that I wanted for myself. A normal life. (What is normal?) It sounds kind of strange to say right now, but I was thrilled when he gave me any indication that he was a normal man with normal desires. One time, when he was in his 50’s, he scratched up the door of our car when he was paying more attention to a woman that he was looking at, then he paid to what he was doing. I loved it! I wanted him to have love in his life.
What I didn’t recognize was the love that he did have. He did love my Mom. Certainly not her illness. After my sister and I moved out, he had some space and time with her all alone. They seemed to reconnect during that time period. My Aunt told me about that after his death. She said that even with my Mom’s still evident mental illness, things had suddenly calmed down. They were together emotionally, if not physically. (Nobody would have a physical relationship with a woman who didn’t bathe. I don’t think.) Not as much screaming and fighting. More co-existing. Even some conversation and interaction.
I am going to tell you one more Dad story to conclude this article. When he died, my Aunt told me he was a war hero. He was a silver medalist who killed five Germans and captured twenty-one others. All by himself….”with no regard for his safety”…..as his notification of award says. My Dad was all about peace. I could see why he wouldn’t share his war experiences with me. Being a war hero wouldn’t have been something he would have thought would be worthy of celebrating. At least his heroism. Instead, he would celebrate any efforts that anybody made to establish peace and justice. He was humble. Truly a man of vision……
No comments:
Post a Comment