Father's Day 2010

My Dad has been dead for a lot of years. But he's never been forgotten by his children or his wife.

The following is an excerpt of an unpublished short biography I've tried to write about him. I started this in 1998, but never finished it.  Probably because to tell his whole story might cause pain to others. Anyway:

Now this isn’t a sugary testimonial or paean to a father that never was. I watched a lot of television growing up, sure, but I did not live any life scripted in Leave It to Beaver, Ozzie and Harriet or Father Knows Best.  Hell, I never knew anyone even approaching Ward Cleaver, Jim Anderson or Ozzie Nelson while growing up. No, this is about a real life, a real person, as remembered by someone who was there at least part of the time.  It can’t be accurate in every detail, but it will be truthful in spirit.

I do know I met lots of people who liked him very much. Never anyone who hated him.

Dad, you may have been an ordinary man, but your beliefs, principles and actions were rather uncommon. I thank you for your commitment to our family, I respect your ability to persevere against long odds and I admire your ability to forgive the unfairness of life, fate and too many people. You are a role model for those who had hard lives, who have been angry and who have been hated, but who have also loved deeply. And I love you. But you know that.

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I’m afraid I can’t make Dad heroic, a mover and shaker of the world or even particularly memorable to those who didn’t know him.  He never seemed to think any of that was important.  I do remember his gentleness, how he held his wife, kissed her, hugged his children and pretended (I think) not to hear words that could cause a quarrel. I didn’t understand how right he was until I found my own wife and life. He showed me that you could be a man and a gentle man, a loving man.
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Dad was something of an enigma to me.  That doesn’t mean I ever really spent any time thinking of him that way.  I just knew while growing up that he was different from me.  Well, maybe I was different from him.  He was calm, soft spoken, quietly humorous, constant yet low key in his religion.  I saw him excited only a few times in my life. Most of them involved a “sport”—wrestling.  He liked wrestling!
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Oh yeah, being gentle doesn’t mean being soft. One night-I think I was about 16-I made him so mad by hurting my sister that he put his fists to me-for the first and only time.  He missed, mostly, but did push me against the wall and I hit my head.  I literally saw stars and I was pissed! But I also was very shocked…this wasn’t at all like my dad. There were few rules my father chose to strictly enforce, but striking, hurting or teasing my sister to tears was at the top. (Actually striking, hurting or teasing my mother was at the top, but I never was that mean or stupid.)

It’s strange, but I’ve thought of that incident several times over the years and was eventually able to put myself in his place. I never thought of it as abuse (it wasn't) and I never doubted I deserved it. What I eventually became clear on was...all in all, Dad showed remarkable restraint that evening.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  Your children and your wife have never forgotten you. And we love you. And we miss you still.

Update - I've just enjoyed Pat Austin's post about her dad.