by Gio
June is of course, a much anticipated month here in Southern California and in the U.S. in general…lots of summer-type activities goin’ on. As a kid I remember equating June with the end of the school year, playing little league baseball, the school picnic..Another observance that is linked with the month of June is Father’s Day. It’s a day that can slip by without a lot of fanfare. I’m reminded of the statistics that seem to come out this time of year and get latched on to by late night talk hosts, among others. For instance, huge volumes of flower arrangements, phone calls, and well wishes go out on Mother’s Day, while Father’s Day sets the record- for most calls asking for money. It’s the kind of teasing that dads routinely take. I hope you’re having good-natured remembrances with your dad, if he’s living..if not, I hope the memories are good ones.
Naturally, there are father-child relationships that are or were less than ideal. When I look back at my own relationship with my father I’m reminded of many strained and painful moments. My father was typical of the 1950’s dad in many ways. He was often away from home. He worked long hours as the “bread-winner”. He was not a “touchy-feely” guy. But, from here it went downhill.
Days at our house were often punctuated by silence. Sometimes long periods of silence. Our father was given to going silent without any notice or a reason why. He might preface a quiet spell with a loud and profane tirade toward our mother. Or, I might come to the dinner table to find it devoid of conversation. That was my indicator that dad was not talking. This silent treatment was known to last for weeks, or even months. Then one day I would sit down to the same dinner table to find conversation in progress as if nothing had happened. Always during the silent periods life would go on, but it would go on around the silence as if it wasn’t really happening.
The years under “his roof” included lots of angry exchanges with my father. These ended, for the most part, when I left home. Eventually he left home, too. I didn’t have much contact with him through my 20’s and 30’s. During a 14-year period I had no contact at all, and I wasn’t even sure where he lived. Then one day I got a call from a relative, telling me that my father was sick and wanted to see me.
I had been living in California for a few years when word reached me. I went back to Pennsylvania to look up the man I hadn’t seen in more than a decade and might be seeing for the last time. My search took me to a small house in a town just a few miles from where I grew up. I knocked on the door and was greeted by the woman who had become my father’s wife.
I walked into a living room not much different from the one I had known as a kid. There on the couch he sat, showing the effects of chemo-therapy but meeting my eyes with a stare that froze me as effectively as if I were once again 6 years old. “Do I know you?”, he said with genuine curiosity. After assuring him that I was his son, he invited me to sit down.
I didn’t make the trip to pound lumps on the man, or to attempt to pry apologies out of him or make up for lost time. I just listened. He proceeded to tell me his story. And, the most surprising thing of all was that he had a story. There were references to the fact that my mother had raised his kids alone, and maybe just a twinge of feeling that he had missed out on something. But otherwise he went on to tell of his life dreams, some of which didn’t pan out and some which he felt were still in front of him once he healed and “beat this thing”.
As I listened I started to find similarities to my own life. The independent spirit. The tendency not to care what others think. The feeling that you should have a direction in life and that you should be happy following it. We parted company in a friendly, if somewhat awkward way. Not a lot of emotion. The “guys” way. After returning to California I had a few telephone conversations with my father. But, his plans were for naught. He died less than a year after my visit.
It’s easy to say that my father represented a template for what not to do in my life. But, I’ve also learned that he served as a most necessary teacher, and as a mirror of some of my own tendencies. Sometimes, when I reach down inside for that “little extra” to keep me on task, I’m reminded of that man with the stare.
