It's Father's Day Plus Three -- Time to get on with it

Now that it’s Father’s Day Plus Three maybe it’s high time that I wrote something about Dear Old Dad.

I’ve made oblique references to him in various blogs, as I have made reference to my childhood and both my parents. As I’ve said, I envy those of you who had a good relationship with your parents. I did not. Neither did my brothers. My childhood family is not the one pictured, just in case you were wondering. Although, I confess that Beaver looks a bit like my brother did at that age.

Anyway, in all of that I am long past feeling cheated. My childhood was what it was and maybe (just maybe) they did the best they could. But, I no longer dwell on it and with that thought in mind; I thought I might be able to express myself dispassionately about my father.

Shortly after he died, and I had never made any sort of amends to him (nor he to me), a counsellor friend suggested I might try writing a posthumous letter. Good idea, thought I. And I did that. And what began as a message of connection turned into a diatribe in which I wrote exactly what I thought. Hey, I thought (then) don’t nobody go layin’ no forgive and forget shit on me. And, whew, I got a lot of stuff off my chest.

Anyway, my father died in early July 1996. My mother had succumbed to a surfeit of vodka in 1992. And, despite their confrontational and never happy marriage (which I have hinted at before), my dad just went holus-bolus downhill from there. In the ensuing four years he aged at least ten, and was a frail old, old man when he died. He was only 80. I know guys of over 80 who are still playing tennis and skiing.

He retired in 1981. Prior to his retirement he was a college dean. He was a dynamic and vital guy, largely married to his job, and had been very successful; rising from a vocational instructor to one of the big guns in vocational and trade training for British Columbia. I was impressed by his accomplishments. What I wasn’t impressed about was when colleagues would praise his virtues and tell me what a terrific guy he was. “Maybe to you,” I would think, but not express. “To his family he’s a sonofabitch; hypercritical: a cheapskate; belligerent; rage-aholic, utterly sparing with any compliment, etc. etc.

Once, a while after he died, his sister (who adored him) informed me that my farther had kept every word I’d ever written. “He was very proud of you,” Aunt Freda said. “Could have fooled me,” I replied. “If he was proud of me, he never passed that word in my direction.” Freda was amazed, and saddened.

But, you know, as time passes on I think I have made a sort of peace with him and gained something of an understanding. My grandfather, his father, was a very successful lawyer (a defender and a prosecutor at different times). He was also a man of much culture. He acted, he sang, he actually hung out with and even performed with some notables. He was actually friends with Jack Benny and his wife, Mary Livingstone. All of which I thought was amazingly cool. My grandfather and I got along like gangbusters.
My grandfather and dad didn’t. My grandfather thought my dad had never amounted to much. So, he skipped the generation and bestowed his beneficence on me. He even left his library to me, not to his eldest son.

In retrospect I realize that was really crappy. Maybe it explained a bit about why my dad was the way he was. Maybe it allows me to hearken to a few reasonably good times with him.

Periodically something will happen and I will think, Dad would be interested in that. I wish I could tell him about it.

There is strength and grace in forgiveness and, believe me, I’m working at it. Not losing sleep over it, but I am working at it.