June 17, 2007
Dad
I hardly knew my father when I was a child. We were a typical fifties family. Mom stayed home and did the June Cleaver thing with four kids underfoot while Dad went out each day to work. He was mostly just a presence in the background on Saturdays, repairing a squeaky door or changing the oil in the old Chevy. We spent “quality time” together on Sundays, though. We all went to church together, and I remember how proud I was when he was selected to help serve communion or to lead a prayer. Many of my most pleasant childhood memories revolve around those days. After we changed out of our “church clothes” and helped Mom get dinner started, we’d all gather in the living room. Dad would always doze off while we all shared the Sunday paper. I know that I fell asleep stretched out on the floor near his feet many times, only to awaken with Blondie and Dagwood imprinted on my cheek.
By the time we reached our teens Dad was what I call a “controlled ” alcoholic. He never drank during the workday, but picked up wine or beer each day on his way home. I don’t think he ever just “went to sleep” during those years. He drank until he passed out each day. He was a passive rather than abusive drunk. Sometime he would tell ribald or racist jokes, but mostly he stayed to himself and drank to the point of oblivion. He was horribly, hatefully bigotted during those years. I’ll always be grateful that Mom did not allow those attitudes to develop in any of us kids.
The first time I remember ever seeing my dad cry was the day I told him and Mom that I was pregnant. I was seventeen and terrified of their reaction. Dad stared at me for a moment, unbelieving, and then I watched his face crumble and the tears begin to flow. Looking back, I realize that he was seeing his little girl’s lost innocence, and the loss of dreams that would be put on hold for the sake of motherhood. I didn’t see those things at the time though. What I saw was that I was loved, I would not be abandoned and that everything was going to be okay. He and Mom really stepped up and were totally involved in my son’s early years. I’ll always be profoundly grateful for that.
Something went wrong in the mid-seventies that was never explained. Dad spent a few days “up North” at a corporate meeting of the firm where he had worked for over twenty years. He had brought a lot of glory to the firm with his award-winning bridge designs and was finally named a partner. Just a few weeks later he was let go. Did he get drunk at the celebratory banquet and cause the firm to regret their choice? Maybe the promotion was a carefully-constructed golden parachute, designed to fatten his retirement fund so they could dismiss him with a clear conscience? He never discussed it, but it was a devastating blow.
Dad and Mom finally did some of the travelling they had always wanted to do. They visited Italy, Spain and France, but spent most of their trip in Germany with my sister, whose military husband was stationed there. Dad did not feel any urgency to seek new employment. He was sure that his credentials would secure him a prestigeous postion when he was ready to work again. His former employer had given him a glowing recommendation, but he hadn’t counted on the age factor. When they returned home and he began his job search he found out that no one wanted to hire a man who was close to retirement age. His ego took a real battering that year and we all feared that alcoholism would finally consume him completely. The challenges he faced turned out to be a blessing instead.
After a year of fruitless search, Dad “lowered his standards” and applied for a civil service postition with the city. He was hired and was quickly promoted to chief engineer of his department. For the first time in his life he was working in a multi-racial environment. We were all fearful that his attitudes would get him fired, but instead we witnessed a miracle. This was the first time in his life that Dad ever actually knew anyone who wasn’t white. We were amazed the first time he spoke respectfully of a black co-worker, and moreso when he called a Mexican field supervisor a friend. Dad had to overcome a lot of childhood conditioning to break through those barriers. His growth during those years will always be infinitely more important to me than the prestige the job eventually brought him.
I brought Dad here to Hawaii when it became evident that he could no longer take care of himself. Despite his feebleness, we had a good time finally getting to know each other. For the first time in his life he spoke about his experiences during World War II in the Pacific. He had never even spoken to my mother about the horrors he had seen, the men he had watched die or the fears he’d lived with daily. He told stories about growing up on a “dirt farm” in Texas during the depression, and about relatives who died before I was born. I finally began to get a glimpse the whole man that was my father. Our time was short, but we poured a lifetime of stories into our days, and then he was gone. Those stories remain precious to me and have been shared with others in the family. I’ll be eternally grateful that we had that time to bring them to light.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad. Is miss you still, today and always.
Technorati Tags: Dads, families, fathers, memories
Posted by skeet @ 12:22 pm • Home & Family
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June 17th, 2007 at 1:57 pm, Charlotte Says:
Oh Skeet what a lovely story. You had a wonderful dad!
June 17th, 2007 at 3:40 pm, skeet Says:
I did Charlotte. I honestly did not know him well until that last year. I’m glad we had that, even though it was difficult for both of us.
June 17th, 2007 at 4:17 pm, Tess Says:
Maybe it’s the pregnant girl hormones, but I always tear up when reading about Dad stories. The past year or so I’ve really been trying to figure out my Dad and my relationship with him. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting somewhere, sometimes I’m worried about him and other times I realize he is the same guy I’ve known all my life. Odd I’m sure. Thanks for sharing.
June 17th, 2007 at 6:19 pm, gardenmomma (Chris) Says:
Oh Skeet, thanks for telling us about your dad. It made me tear up and I promise you, there are no pregnant girl hormones in sight!
I don’t know if you have a relationship with the Lord, but it is my belief that nothing happens by accident. You are, and he was, exactly where you (he) should have been every step of the way. Thanks again!
June 17th, 2007 at 7:37 pm, Whim Says:
Very touching Skeet.
June 18th, 2007 at 5:23 am, Footprints on the Moon » Postie Carnival - Fathers - June 18, 2007 Says:
[…] presents Dad posted at skeet’s […]
June 18th, 2007 at 5:30 am, eve Says:
What a beautiful post, he was a wonderful man!
June 18th, 2007 at 7:05 am, Jennifer Says:
What a beautiful post, Skeet. Your father sounds like a wonderful man. Hold on to those memories, they’re precious.
June 18th, 2007 at 8:20 am, Amy Says:
This is simply beautiful. I love reading about the miracles in people’s lives. It reminds me that we mere mortals have a limited imagination and understanding for the awesomeness that we’re all capable of achieving.
June 18th, 2007 at 11:51 am, suni Says:
what a beautiful story. you have such a way with words. i am glad you finally had the chance to get to know your father for who he really was before the end.
June 18th, 2007 at 12:42 pm, Karen Says:
That was a wonderful story Skeet. I’m so glad you were there for him as he was for you.
June 18th, 2007 at 3:31 pm, Leigh Says:
Oh Skeet. I have tears in my eyes. Thank you so much for sharing your story with us. It touched me deeply.
June 18th, 2007 at 7:47 pm, skeet Says:
I think most parent/child relationships are pretty complex, Tess. We work with what we’ve got. I wish I had had more time after the floodgates opened and Dad began to tell his stories, but I have accepted that things are exactly as they are supposed to be. I was given a gift of the time we did have.
I hope you have many more years to share with your dad!
June 18th, 2007 at 7:49 pm, skeet Says:
Oh, my, Chris! You need to come back and read my reply to the comment immediately above yours. Our heads and hearts are in the same place on this one. Mahalo for your kind words.
June 18th, 2007 at 7:50 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo Ms. Whim. Hope you’re able to stay connected this time! {{{{Whim}}}}
June 18th, 2007 at 7:52 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo Eve! I always loved my dad, but it took me most of his life to realize that he was a good and wonderful man. It’s so easy to be blinded by the not-so-pretty and miss the joy.
June 18th, 2007 at 7:54 pm, skeet Says:
Jennifer, those last few months with my father made him an entirely different man in my eyes. They were indeed a precious gift.
June 18th, 2007 at 7:55 pm, gardenmomma (Chris) Says:
I might’ve said, “What a coincidence”, but it wasn’t one at all!
But it’s cool, isn’t it? You received a wonderful gift in your time with your dad, and you gave us one is sharing him with us! God Bless!
June 18th, 2007 at 7:59 pm, skeet Says:
I feel the same, Amy.I found my father an embarrassment for much of my life, not just because of what he was, but also because I was too narrow in my vision. We sought and found each other in the end, and I’m so grateful we did.
June 18th, 2007 at 8:02 pm, skeet Says:
Suni, I learned so much near the end of my father’s days. I saw the magnitude of the painfull loss he still felt where my mother had been. I learned why he earned his medals in the war. I remembered how incredibly intelligent he was, and how thoughtful in using his intelligence for other people. A gift - purely a gift!
June 18th, 2007 at 8:04 pm, skeet Says:
I don’t believe in coincidence, Karen. I was living halfway around the world when Dad became unable to take care of himsel. There were others closer, but it was meant for him to be here in paradise with me. Ain’t life funny that way?
June 18th, 2007 at 8:06 pm, skeet Says:
I was very choked up while writing about my dad, Leigh. It’s hard to convey the pain that paved the way to the healing in the end, but it’s a necessary part of our story. It felt good to share it the best way I know how.
June 18th, 2007 at 8:08 pm, skeet Says:
Mahalo Chris. Coindidence is finding a pen when you need to write a note. This was something else.
August 10th, 2007 at 4:22 pm, the frogster Says:
Thanks, Skeet. It’s good to hear that you had some time to get to know your Dad at the end of his life. I just lost my Dad to Cancer about 6 weeks ago, and I’m still sort of in shock. It’s good to hear others have been where I am and have gotten through.
August 10th, 2007 at 4:48 pm, skeet Says:
Frogster, I’m sorry for your loss. It took a long time for me to shake that after-loss daze. I still occasionally wake up at night and spring out of bed, thinking that I’ve heard him thumping his cane on the floor to call me. I think it’s just his memory, tapping at the mind’s door while I sleep. I hope you have many pleasant memories to sustain you now.
August 26th, 2007 at 7:09 pm, Jessie Says:
Visiting by way of the postie blog carnival. This is a beautiful post!
August 26th, 2007 at 11:12 pm, skeet Says:
I appreciate the link and the inclusion in the carnival, Jessie, but my submission of this post was for the carnival that ran in June, lol! I didn’t submit this time because I didn’t have a school story in me. Glad you like my Dad story, though!