My father was born on Aug 29, 1921 and died on Aug 26, 1991. Most of what he did in between those dates has already been forgotten by most people and very little will be remembered by the rest of us. I loved my father and coming upon the anniversary of his passing I find myself thinking about him and re-visiting my life with him. I consider him circumspectly—not as a loving father or a strict disciplinarian for he was neither—but as the man he was.
Although he didn't hug us, tell us he loved us, or pay much attention to us, he wasn't a horrible father as fathers go. He didn't abandon us, beat us, come home drunk or fritter away his paycheck on whatever it was those “bad” fathers spent their hard-earned money on. These facts, and others, our mother carefully reminded us of whenever we doubted his love. “Of course he loves you” she'd convince us “he put up that swing set in the backyard for you didn't he?” Yes, of course. How could I forget that. And that would suffice.
No, dad was just a man, struggling with his own demons and, as Kramer would say, “emotionally unavailable.” I always had the impression he was extremely busy with something obscure and important and I was an annoying fly buzzing around his head when I'd seek his attention. If I had a nickel for every time I've asked him a question only to be ignored, I'd be a nickel-aire. His demeanor continued throughout my adult life. Although I did visit on holidays and other times, I never depended on my father for anything—money, advice on how to set up the VHS player or even a kind word. It would have been an exercise in futility. I left home at 18 and never looked back. Which was a good thing because dad shut the door firmly behind me. He didn't slam it or lock it. Just made sure it was closed.
After my own children were born and grew out of the cute dimpled-baby stage and into the whining, demanding, muddy shoes, argumentative kid-stage I began to see my dad re-surface....in ME. I saw myself reacting at times to my kids the way he did to me. Many times I have forced myself answer my children, and even my grandchildren's questions when I desperately wanted to ignore them and walk away. Times when I've reluctantly put off doing “obscure and important things” in order to have a tea party with them or watch them sword fight or tell them endless bedtime stories. It is my secret struggle, and although I don't always triumph, I am loathe to allow my dad to loom up in me unawares and I refuse to leave my children and grandchildren with the same memories he left me. Knowing I am like him in that way has helped me to forgive and make peace with the father of my childhood.
Nowadays, whenever I begin to consider my parent's shortcomings the good Lord immediately reminds me of my own. I'm no cake-walk. We're all just trying to do our best with the baggage we've got. We're all going to screw up our kids to some degree or other. We can only pray they'll forgive us someday and end up well-adjusted in the end. And in the end I hope my own children can remember me with generous grace and a smile on their face.
~ Mary Catherine ~
~ Mary Catherine ~
