I Hear the Old Man Laughing

I don't ever remember celebrating my father's birthday as I grew up. Logic dictates we, our mother (his wife) and my brothers and sisters (his children) must have done so as we did for everyone in our family, and yet every year I struggle and fail to find a single memory of a single moment of that day.

I mention that because had he lived, tomorrow would be his ninety-fifth birthday and I'd like to think he would be something I never felt he was while we shared the earth, proud of something, anything, I'd ever done. In this case, as was so true in our shared lives, I would be cheating (oh so slightly) because I'd hope he'd be proud of his grandchildren, Patrick and Michelle, who are fortunately for them far more Sigrid's children.

My most lasting memory of my father isn't really a memory of him, but a reminder of how life goes on within you and without you. Many years ago while shopping in the US military exchange, Sigrid found 'the perfect card for you to send to your dad for Father's Day.' This was all pre-Internet and global village days, remember, and was back when it was only she and me and work (and sadly, not always in that order). 

I don't remember the card, though this would be a better lesson for me if I had, but I signed it, and Sigrid addressed it, put a stamp on it and had me throw it in my work bag (a large  shoulder-strapped book bag, that carried, judging from its weight, most of the world's most curious and heaviest items).

And that's where the card remained. Months later, and well past Father's Day, she was rooting through my bag, in search of something I had promised to bring home but had misplaced. What she found that day, and registered a quiet note of disappointment with me because of the discovery, was the card we both thought I had mailed all those months earlier for Father's Day. Faced with the reality I obviously hadn't, all I could do was mumble a promise to do so 'next year.' 

You've guessed, of course, my father died before 'next year' ever happened. As a self-centered oldest child, stiff-necked and incapable of bending, I had clashed with him nearly every day of our lives. I think from the time I could talk, all I said to him was 'no.' 

I don't recall what we fought about or why, but they were bitter arguments, often ending in physical contact that made me more fully appreciate the weight of his hands, but I refused to yield anything at any time and we passed months, if not years, exchanging as few words as possible for as long as possible. 

I had wished the worst for him countless times, and when notified by the Red Cross (I was still on active duty in the Air Force at the time) that he was dead, my first reaction was (and to this day still is) overwhelming guilt. 

We three oldest children had moved out and away, but our two youngest sisters and one brother were left to be raised by our mother in circumstances vastly different from ours when were their age, and I made no effort to ever learn or to attempt to mitigate or improve. 

I've never spoken to any of them about those times and know I never shall. More casualties in a war that should have ended decades ago, but continues even as I type this and feel the gorge rise in my veins as if "enough" weren't already, and finally, truly enough.

But (and it arrived less than a week ago) I can now smile at a brilliantly different perspective offered by my brother Adam, who wrote a book for his three (!) grandchildren, Pop-Pop Rules: A how-to manual for the little girl who saved my life simply by showing up. I think it's brilliant but don't take my word for it; check it out for yourself. 

In the decades since his death, I've had to concede I am becoming more accepting, like it or not, that I am my father's son in ways neither of us could have ever seen or imagined. Maybe he'd be proud of that, but in a way, I truly hope not. 

Life is a sum of all your moments--waking and dreaming; everything you've done or left undone; every word, said and unsaid and of all your prayers, answered but, more especially and finally, unanswered. 
-bill kenny