Remembering My Father

We Left a Lot Unsaid

I’m not a big fan of the made-up Hallmark holidays, but, here on the cusp of Father’s Day, I’m going to write a few sentences about my father.

It has been almost three years since my father died. I feel confident in saying that everyone who knew him thought of him as a good man who could be counted on, no matter the situation. He was not a saint, and not perfect, but he was a good and decent human being. He was the person you’d call if help was needed.

As a child, I remember standing with my father, clutching his leg and asking him if he was the biggest man in the world. He said he wasn’t, but at 6’3” or 6’4”, 250+ lbs., he was bigger than any of my mother’s family. We lived next door to my maternal grandparents and many of my mother’s nine siblings and their families still lived in the general area, so we saw them all the time. He was way bigger than any of his in-laws. He seemed like a giant compared to everyone else I knew.

He was 250-260 in those early days, but no one ever thought of him as fat. He never had a big belly that hung over his belt in the front, never had large man-boobs, he was what they used to call “big boned”. My dad was a tall, strong, thickly-built, country boy. (I don’t know what happened to me, because I’m not any of those. Well, except the country boy part.)

One of my favorite childhood memories of my dad was when we would play catch in the backyard. Being the biggest man in the world, his two hands were the size of catcher’s mitts, so he did not need a glove. I liked that it was something he and I did together. I wonder if he remembered it as fondly as I do.

I recall a time when my father wanted to lose some weight, so he lived on salads and grapefruit juice for a while. We ate regular food and he ate what he called “rabbit food”. It worked because I specifically remember my dad’s happiness when he stepped on the scale and it said 230. The whole dieting episode was a mystery to me. He never struck me as particularly vain about his appearance, and I doubt it was a doctor’s suggestion, because no one went to the doctor back then. Unless a bone was showing. Speaking of which . . .

Some years later, I remember my father working on one of our cars. I think he was replacing the ball joints, which are front suspension parts. He had jacked up the car and taken the front wheels off, and he was up under there working on those ball joints. I recall hearing banging and pounding. And occasional swearing. Then the banging and pounding stopped.

He came out from under the car and one of his fingers was bent about 90 degrees the wrong way at the first joint. It must have hurt like hell, but my Pops was not one for wild histrionics. Stoicism was more his thing. I do not remember exactly how the next sequence of events played out, but I think he went to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. When he came back with a large, uncomfortable-looking bandage on his mangled-up finger, what did he do? Well, he resumed working on those damned ball joints, of course. He was not going to let a little boo-boo stop him from doing what he had to do. That was the way he was.

I lived 2100 miles from my father for all of my adult life. I would go back to visit every few years, and I talked with him on the phone every so often, but, in my recollection, we had very few man to man talks about anything. I regret that.

After my dad died, I mentioned to someone that even though I knew my dad my whole life, we did not know each other very well. I acknowledge my share of the responsibility for that. The father I knew was the strong, silent type. It was hard to know how he felt about anything, because he kept so much bottled up inside. And, if I’m being honest, I can be the same way. It was kind of difficult for two people who had trouble communicating to have a meaningful conversation about anything.

We had a few opportunities over the years to have a good, long talk about our lives and ourselves and our relationship. I knew I would have to take the initiative, but I just couldn’t do it. We talked about the weather, and work, and the Steelers, however I could not find the gumption to ask him questions about his life or our shared history, together and apart.

I wanted to know more about his childhood, and his time as a soldier. I wanted to ask him about stuff I knew would be painful for him to talk about. I wanted to know why his parents lived apart. I wanted to know why the family farm on which he grew up, had to be sold. I wanted to know how he met my mother. I wanted to know if they ever loved each other, or they just got married because she got knocked up (with me).

My mother was pregnant and married at 16, to a 25 year old soldier. I know in those days many couples got married because the woman was pregnant. It was seen as the right thing to do. Love often had nothing to do with it.

I guess this situation would be scandalous today, but, back then, it wasn’t uncommon. I’m sure my mother’s family was not too upset, because they were poor and eventually raised ten children. With my mother moving out, there was one less mouth to feed.

All I know about my father’s time in the Army, is that he was stationed at Fort Knox in Kentucky.

From my perspective as the eldest of five kids, I can remember my parents seemed to like each other all right, although, I do not recall them being overly demonstrative about it. I was just a child, so what did I know about how a relationship between a husband and wife should look?

They could have been having issues all along, but I started noticing things weren’t right between them when I was about 13, and they had been married for 13 years. There was arguing, but mostly I remember the smoldering, deafening silences. By this time, I had two younger brothers, and a baby sister. I think at this point, my mother was about 30 years old, and she began to realize she wanted more of what life had to offer. I believe she found it increasingly difficult to be stuck in our trailer every day, with four brats and a husband who could be hard to reach emotionally.

I know for a fact that my parents made the choice to “stay together for the kids” because I heard them say it. But, it wasn’t easy. For any of us.

Then, out of the blue, there was a brief reconciliation, and guess what? My youngest sister was born. Shortly after, though, my parents’ relationship soured again. This time there would be no reconciling, although it was another decade or more before they finally got divorced. I was long gone by then.

I should have asked my dad to share his thoughts about their marriage. He might have refused, however, I should have had him make the choice to share or not.

I grew resentful and withdrawn when I realized our happy family was not a happy family. Being a selfish, self-absorbed teenager, in my mind I made it all about me, I guess. When I was old enough, and had the opportunity, I moved far away, leaving behind everyone I had ever known.

I wish I would have had a conversation with my dad about, well, anything and everything. I wish I would have asked him if he was proud of me, because he never said he was. I wish I would have asked him if he loved me, because he never said he did.

However, I do not resent him or blame him for not telling me what I wished to hear. I never said those words to him, either. I could have. I’ve been a grown-ass man for many years, I could have said what needed to be said, what should have been said. But, I didn’t. And that’s on me.

My thinking was, that if he had anything he wanted me to know, he would have told me. And, I suppose he thought that if I had any questions about his life experiences, I would have asked him. Damn. It’s no wonder we never had a real conversation about the years and experiences we shared as father and son.

I think this picture is Hi-larious. My dad and me, sitting on his porch swing, showing off our whiter than white socks. Looks like I had enough hair for the both of us.

On this Father’s Day, I’m going to remember throwing the baseball around with my Pops. I’m going to picture him on a hot, humid summer evening, wearing his steel-toed work shoes and green work pants, with his shirt off. He’ll rear back, and with his ham-sized left hand, he’ll fling that ball high into the large, puffy clouds. Then, I’ll watch as it tumbles from the sky and plops right into my tattered glove. I’ll catch it every time.

My dad and me. Note the big Popeye forearms. His, not mine.

To my primo subscribers, please help me grow my publication by sharing my posts with family and friends, or on your social media accounts. Thank you for your support.

And, don’t be afraid to scroll to the bottom and hit that Like button! (But, only if you really mean it.)

Do you have anything to say about Remembering My Father? Well, then . . .