I will never be as great a father as my Dad.
Many things can happen when a man loses his wife and is left with two young children. One of the more common things to happen is the man re-marries, so he doesn't have to face the prospect of raising those children alone. After all, he's the man, and, in certain generations of our history and in many cultures, that means he has to work, "make a living", "provide", etc. That means, that he'll need help cooking, cleaning, looking after the kids.
It's only natural, I suppose…but I'm more a fan of fact than supposition.
I could see where that might cause resentment toward the poor woman who would be put in that position. A lot of, "You're not my mother, and you never will be!" possibly directed her way by children not old enough to know the weight of their words. Plus - over time - how might the woman feel toward the man, knowing that she may simply have been chosen to be a glorified housekeeper and babysitter, rather than a 'love interest' for him?
How many times, I wonder, has a man in this position gone seeking a woman whom he's known has always wanted to be with him, but - until now - was someone with whom he had always avoided intimacy? For some, the harsh reality of that situation would be that it would be a 'safe bet'.
I sometimes wonder if my father considered any or all of these things when he made the decision to raise us on his own. All by his lonesome. My father never re-married, nor brought even a 'prospective mate' into our house the entire time we were growing up.
He wasn't a bad-looking fella, either. Got teased about his ears when he was a kid, but I got a sense that the girls seemed to like him. I didn't need to have any sense at all to know how the 'girls' in the O.ne P.arent F.amily A.ssociation liked him. They were ALL OVER HIM…yet he was gracious and gentlemanly enough to explain to them all that his main concern was the welfare of his children, and he was still in love with their mother, even though she was no longer here. He even went as far to throw a New Year's Eve party at our house, as a 'bowing out' - a kind of a swan song to the group. It turned out that the O.P.F.A. was, unfortunately, more of a lonely hearts club instead of the forum for discussion of the trials and tribulations of being a single parent, as he'd hoped it would be.
My Dad was a Navy man. Fought in both the Second World War and Korean War. (which some bureaucrat who probably had never seen a moment's action in anyone's military decided to re-name the "Korean Conflict" - Hey! - A conflict is when you get cut off in traffic by someone, and return to them the famous one-fingered salute, pal. I believe the North and South Koreans were a little further involved than that.)
Dad entered the Navy at seventeen. His own father abandoned the family when he was young and went to live on his own in a lighthouse. My father needed to provide for his own mother and sister, so he would send three quarters of his paycheque home to them. He said he didn't need it, anyway. They fed him in the Navy, and provided him a bunk to sleep in. That was all he needed.
He worked his way up to CPO (Chief Petty Officer), and had the respect of his men. During the war, he was on a Minesweeper. Doesn't sound like much, when you just say it, until he describes to you that the purpose of the minesweeper is to lead the fleet of destroyers across the ocean - everywhere it goes, really - but across the ocean was impressive enough to me. If there are mines which go undetected by the minesweeper, the fleet is still safe…because the fleet will be able to watch the minesweeper being blown to smithereens directly in front of it, and know not to follow that course. And you thought 'air traffic controller' was a stressful occupation.
My early years after the death of my mother were filled with my father's stories and parables. The lesson for ME was almost always responsibility. Seemed it didn't matter how much responsibility I showed him, I didn't have enough. There's a line from a song I always remember when I think about my youth, or what there was of it. Pink Floyd, "Welcome To The Machine". The song came along at a time when I wasn't sure why I decided on music for a career, because no one else in my family was, as they say, 'musical'. The line was, "You bought a guitar to punish your ma." I think that I might have bought a guitar and ran off with the band to punish both my parents, in a way. Punish my mother for leaving me when I was a kid, and my father for forcing me to grow up. "You can't be a boy anymore; you have to be a man now."
He was absolutely right, and I was too selfish to see it. So, although I still lived "under his roof" whenever the band was off the road, I essentially used my musical ability as an opportunity to run away from home. The band was only home a couple of weeks a year, so I didn't have to face the whole "being a man" thing for long periods of time.
All this resentment I had for responsibility, even though I knew my father would come home from work, change out of his suit, (he was out of the Navy by this time) and help prepare supper with my sister - until he had taught her enough for her to be able to do it on her own. He did everything, really. Drove us to where we wanted to go, gave us whatever money we needed, everything you could hope a father would do, was an elder in the church, and worked at a job he was never really all that excited about to keep us in food, clothing and school.
Personally, I had already learned most of my kitchen duties from my mother, who was only five years old when she had lost her own mother, and, in good old Scottish tradition, had to run the house for her father because she was the youngest, which meant she was the least likely of her five siblings to be able to get a job to bring money into the house. So, mom taught me how to do dishes and keep the kitchen clean when I was five, because, she said,
"You never know when you're going to need to know these things."
Turned out thirteen was when I needed to know them, and when washing dishes would become my full-time job. My father wanted me to expand far beyond the sink, however, and my little thirteen-year-old brain just couldn't fathom having to grow up that much when all my friends were out playing or basically doing whatever they wanted. Why couldn't my existence be like that?
"You need to learn responsibility." So, joining the band was like running away with the circus, and running away from the lessons my father was trying to teach me. You may be surprised to know - that he supported me completely in my musical efforts.
My father's teachings didn't fall on completely deaf ears, though.
I became valedictorian of my high school graduating class.
He was there. He printed off copies of my valedictory, and mailed them to family, even passed it around to the guys in his office. "He wrote the whole thing himself," he'd tell them.
I won trophies for most valuable player in hockey as goaltender of championship teams.
He was there. I remember one particular playoff game where it came down to whether or not I stopped a penalty shot to determine the outcome. I stopped it, and I had never seen him prouder.
Actually, I did everything better when he was there.
I came to live to make him proud of me, because I had seen his face and heard his voice when he was disappointed in me, and I wanted to avoid that. It was painful.
He never had much of a chance to see me play in the band, because we were mostly on the road - but at a rare gig in our hometown, he decided to drop in at the urging of a family friend. The family friend went with him to make sure he went. I could see him that night, way at the back of the hall, but only for a moment. He never got up the courage to actually step into the room. The next morning, he simply said, "You guys have really good rhythm." Back in those days, my head was so fat about how good we were, I probably expected more of a compliment, but years later, the reality of my father not being able to get up the courage to step in the room said far more than his compliment. From that point on, I think he was sure that we were going to be successful, because he was shocked the day I came home to tell him my music career was over.
When I stopped playing (possibly a story for another day - possibly not), my father allowed me some time to get over the disappointment before getting started in on me again about what I was doing, where I was going, reminding me of my wasted scholastic achievements, lost potential (leaving my university degree incomplete to join the band), and lack of responsibility.
He was, as usual, right again.
So I got off my butt and took a course in radio. That was 23 years ago. I'm still in it. It has spit me back out a couple of times, but I am doggedly determined to not let anyone or anything keep me from doing something I never really wanted to do in the first place.
My Dad was tough, although he didn't look it. He was also angry at the world a lot, mostly because the world had taken the woman he loved too early. But he didn't whine. Yes, the woman he doted on was gone. But this was his hand. Fine. He would forge ahead. He was tough. So, in hindsight, I guess it shouldn't have been surprising that, the day he came back from the doctor's office after some tests, he simply turned to me and said, "I have leukemia. I don't know how long I have to live. You'd better make sure your life is in order. I don't know what's next."
He walked out of the room. I sat there and cried. This is how you tell your son you're going to die? The next morning, at breakfast, he said, in his often gruff manner, "Won't do you much good to cry about it. Won't do me much good, either." Again, he was right. Damn it.
My father fought for eight years to beat his disease. One of my favourite moments with him was just before I was about to leave for Newfoundland for my first radio job. My sister had baked a cake (Chocolate cake with choclate icing. It's all I ever want, really.) and had a bit of a celebration the night before at her place. This next morning, Dad and I, back home, were doing what we always did when we'd had cake the night before.
We had cake for breakfast.
It took a moment for it to hit me, but since it had been six years earlier when he had told me about the leukemia, and I was now moving away from home for God knows how long - would this be the last time I see my father, my only living parent? I put the cake down and held his somewhat frail frame as tight as I could, and as I started to lose control of the emotion of the moment, he said, "Don't worry. You'll be okay."
I'LL be okay? Who the Hell cares if I'll be okay? What about you, dad? It has always stayed with me, that difference in perception each of us had of that moment, as we both were feeling exactly the same feeling for each other.
I was working my second radio job away from home when I got a call from my sister telling me that dad had taken a turn for the worse, was in hospital, and I'd better get on a plane. I did see him before he died, although he was even more frail by this time. He sensed my shock at his appearance, and decided to make light of the situation. "I had cocaine up my nose today. They couldn't stop my nosebleed, so they had to pack some kind of cocaine thing to stop the bleeding." …and then he laughed. The irony of his former rock musician son hearing his father talk about having cocaine up his nose was simply too rich for him to pass up.
I was 28 when he died, and I felt alone in the world when he was gone. Yet, it wasn't that I didn't know what to do next, or the difference between right and wrong, or any of the other things he made sure he drilled into me. I may have never learned to be the more responsible man he always wanted me to be, but my father taught me, through his shining example, how to give my all in everything I do. That's how much he always gave.
Dad, I will never forget the days when I was young enough to call you Daddy. Our world was a happier place.
Through everything that followed, though, it was you who held us together and kept us ever mindful of what a family was supposed to be.
I wish you could meet my family.
You'd love Janne, and she would be charmed by you.
I wish you could see Liam and Morgan.
I think there's a strong possibility that Liam's going to look just like you.
I would be so proud if they someday feel about me the way I feel about you.
apologies for the old photo
Happy Father's Day, Dad. I will do my best to always live by your example.
