Memories of an Imperfect Man..

My father wasn’t perfect, a lot of the reasons I am the way I am is because of him. He and I were so alike; I take after him in so many ways. He was insecure, so am I. He was quiet in gatherings, as am I. But he was a wonderful father; I never doubted once, that he loved me.

There were things in my fathers’ childhood that I never knew until the funeral. Well, I knew one event that had tormented him always, but there was another that happened, and it stunned me to find out, that he could have carried this tragedy inside for so many years, and the only way he expressed it was by stammering.

When my father was a young boy, he witnessed death much too closely. My aunt, his only and adored sister was 3 or 4, I’m not sure exactly how old. But she was very young, and she and my father were getting off the bus in front of their parents house. They lived in Chicago then. It was New Years Day, my grandfathers’ birthday. My aunt was so excited to see him in the front yard that she couldn’t keep from running across the street, managing to extract her hand from my fathers, and by running in front of the bus, a car did not see that she would be there.

My grandfather was a famous singer at the time in Chicago, he had his own radio program, and he was called ‘The Voice of Romance’. That day that he saw his only daughter die, he stopped singing, and.. he blamed my father always.

Only a few years later, my father still a young boy, there was a friend of his that he hung out with. One day they were walking along some railroad tracks, his friends shoe got caught in one of the rails. He tried to help his friend disentangle himself, but then a train blew its’ horn, to warn them of it’s impending approach. My father was unable to help his friend, and again, he had to witness death close at hand.

His father blamed him for this as well, my father stammered even more so. My grandfather became an alcoholic, even to the point of drinking rubbing alcohol. He died when I was 5, I don’t remember too much of him, nor did I go to that funeral. I am sad to say I do not remember him singing, for he had a splendid voice. My mother said that when I was little, she would sometimes walk into a room quietly if I were with my grandfather and he would sing to me. At 3 I looked identical to my aunt, there was one picture of her at that age, my other grandmother thought it was one of me, when she saw it.

My father was not the best looking man, tall, gangly, glasses and acne. He didn’t date much, but when he saw my mother, he proposed to her the first night he saw her. They both frequented clubs to listen to music; they loved swing and Nat King Cole. They met in a bar, my father rather inebriated, and my mother was there with a man who played piano.

She’d often joke that she married him to get rid of him, because he would never leave her alone, he adored her, worshipped the ground she walked on. They had dated for a while, and then she broke up with him. Then when they were back together and engaged and planning their wedding, one night they were with their best friends playing Clue. My father hated that game, and didn’t wish to play, so he suggested they go to Vegas and get married. Oddly enough, they did, and my mother slept on the ride home, with her head on the best mans’ shoulder, in the back seat. No, there was no oddness in this, they were friends, nothing more, and he’d never have betrayed my father.

My mother did not fall in love with my father until a few years after I was born. She had already gone through two dreadful marriages and divorces, and swore she’d never divorce again. My father didn’t care that she wasn’t in love with him; he loved her so much, worked hard to support her, my two brothers that learned to call him Dad. When I came along, they had wanted a child, though after my mother had lost one son before due to an enlarged kidney and heart, the doctors warned her that she and/or a baby might not survive. After trying for some time and looking into adoption, she found out she was pregnant. She was so thin, a 19″ waist at her normal weight, she scarcely ever looked pregnant. I was born 2 months premature, which with how medicine was then, is remarkable I survived.

I won’t go into a lot of family detail here, my brothers grew to love my father, he did his best not to ever make them feel they were not his own. My mother did grow to love my father, and through several major surgeries she went through on her stomach and back, months in hospital, he working swing or graveyard, he gave all he could to make sure we were all taken care of.

When I was in my later teens, I saw my mom grow to love my father, and I was so glad. I had always felt bad for him to go through an unrequited love. That he might have to live his life without it returned, even though they shared a life together. If she had to go and take care of my grandmother for a few days after she had surgery, my father would be so lost, calling every night to speak to her, anxious for her to return. If she went to get her hair done, before calling and asking him to pick her up, if it took a bit longer, he started to worry about her.

When a few years before he died, they both spoke to me about when he would. I wouldn’t want to listen, it upset me so terribly. I couldn’t bear to think of him being gone, not my dad. My fathers side of the family did not live long lives, usually dying in their 70’s, while my mothers side lives into the 90’s. She knew she would survive him, though she dreaded it so much and now, she misses him terribly, as do I. I know that if something had happened and she was taken first, he would have soon followed, he just couldn’t bear the thought of life without her.

When I was younger I didn’t want to look like my dad, though I did inherit both of their bad eyesight and his acne. Luckily I was able to get on an accutane program when I was 25 so I was not scarred as he was. He and I argued a lot, but we enjoyed it. Sometimes he would come up with things to argue about, just so we could. One time he started talking about seeing a new band and how he thought they were terrific, New Kids on the Block. I was absolutely appalled and astounded, my father liked them? I couldn’t believe it and started arguing with him sbout how dumb they were, and he kept talking of how he liked them, having seen them on Johnny Carson the week before. After some few minutes of this, I looked into his eyes and they were twinkling, he was so pleased with himself. My mother nagged him about it, getting me to argue, and then I just couldn’t help but laugh, I’d fallen for it.

For the last 3 years I’ve tried to forget today was Father’s Day, but to do so disrespects his memory. He was the best, and I’ll adore him for the rest of my life, even if he’s gone, he’ll always be my dad. I’d given anything in the world to get another chance to argue with him again, even if it meant I had to listen to him watching to his beloved sports, which I hated.

Happy Fathers Day, Daddy.

Addendum: I know this is a disjointed entry, but it’s not an easy one to write coherently.