Father's Day
This is the first Father's Day my brother and I get to spend without our father. The happy news is that this is my brother's first Father's Day as a new dad. I haven't been too emotional. A little teary-eyed here and there leading up to this, and writing about it isn't easy, but the worst is this general feeling of being lost. He was our anchor. He was our compass. If we ever got lost, or wandered into the darkness a little farther than we knew how to handle, he brought us home. God knows I could use a dose of that right now. You try not to be too hard on yourself for not communicating when you had the chance, but some days are tougher than others.
Right now what comes to the front of my mind are thew few times that Dad tried to talk about his father, who he lost at 15 to lung cancer. Dad never really talked about granddad much, but I remember him mentioning to me that near the end, Dad was able to pick up granddad in bed to help him be comfortable. Dad only told that story to me once, it was still too painful 40 years later. Granddad had been sick the summer before he passed, but he had made it a point to make it to Dad's baseball games and kept score. That was Dad's last summer playing baseball. I'd say he loved baseball, but the word "love" doesn't do his passion justice. The next summer and his summers through college were spent working on the state road as a flagman. Dad put himself through college and law school working summers and received a stipend from the government for college students from single parent families. He joined the Army partially because he was about to be drafted, but also because "Running to Canada is not an option in this family."
These were all stories and facts that I took for granted. These were facts that happened. History. Not memories. Not feelings. I never made a true effort to analyze what could be inferred from the story itself, or the stories that Dad never really talked about: How sick his father had been. That he never played baseball after his dad died. That his adolescence was cut short. By the time he was my age he had lost both of his parents to cancer. My grandmother died the autumn before my brother was born. It's a story that's all too familiar.
Dad always scolded me for not communicating, for ignoring his and Mom's calls. I remember he would tell me that he would talk to his mother as often as he could: once a week his freshman year in college, once a day when he could manage it. I always thought that this was about appreciating the time we have to talk to each other, and it is; but it's also about making sure people are not alone like his mother was, like my mom is. I get it now, or at least I understand it better than I had.
I'm trying to remember as much as I can these days, and I know I'm doing a decent job and that he would be proud of me.
Right now what comes to the front of my mind are thew few times that Dad tried to talk about his father, who he lost at 15 to lung cancer. Dad never really talked about granddad much, but I remember him mentioning to me that near the end, Dad was able to pick up granddad in bed to help him be comfortable. Dad only told that story to me once, it was still too painful 40 years later. Granddad had been sick the summer before he passed, but he had made it a point to make it to Dad's baseball games and kept score. That was Dad's last summer playing baseball. I'd say he loved baseball, but the word "love" doesn't do his passion justice. The next summer and his summers through college were spent working on the state road as a flagman. Dad put himself through college and law school working summers and received a stipend from the government for college students from single parent families. He joined the Army partially because he was about to be drafted, but also because "Running to Canada is not an option in this family."
These were all stories and facts that I took for granted. These were facts that happened. History. Not memories. Not feelings. I never made a true effort to analyze what could be inferred from the story itself, or the stories that Dad never really talked about: How sick his father had been. That he never played baseball after his dad died. That his adolescence was cut short. By the time he was my age he had lost both of his parents to cancer. My grandmother died the autumn before my brother was born. It's a story that's all too familiar.
Dad always scolded me for not communicating, for ignoring his and Mom's calls. I remember he would tell me that he would talk to his mother as often as he could: once a week his freshman year in college, once a day when he could manage it. I always thought that this was about appreciating the time we have to talk to each other, and it is; but it's also about making sure people are not alone like his mother was, like my mom is. I get it now, or at least I understand it better than I had.
I'm trying to remember as much as I can these days, and I know I'm doing a decent job and that he would be proud of me.