what I learned

Dad passed away in 2006 yet the clutch at my heart, as I think of him, often feels as if it were yesterday. There is a physical punch to the chest, my throat tightens and my eyes sting with tears unshed when I see his picture, remember the days we spent together, the simple missing him from my life. It seems that I only truly began to know the depth of the man who raised me, who loved me, and who disciplined me, after my mother’s death. As if she had been a buffer between us, taking center stage, which of course she had, preventing Dad and I from really knowing each other. That seems harsh, and condemning, but it closer to the truth than not.

I learned more about my father’s relationship with his parents, from his perspective, rather than my mother’s second hand view of it. How being the only child put expectations on him that he didn’t want. That his parent’s were emotionally absent and unaffectionate. That his father tried to bribe him into the family business and then turned his back for a time when my father, in his own willful youth, enlisted in the Navy, lying about his age and getting his mother to sign her approval. That there was adultery and fighting between his parents and his desire to leave that behind was a compelling impetus to join the navy and escape the chaos. That his mother drank copiously while their family owned a liquor distribution company and bar, and after, only stopping after his father died from a heart attack.

I learned that my parent’s were supposed to meet on a blind date and when, for reasons I forget, that date did not happen, my father tracked her down to apologize for not being there. And he proposed marriage two weeks later. She said yes, but not until he was discharged, planning their wedding while he was out at sea. They would have been married 52 years when my mother died.

I learned my father wanted nothing more than to make my mother happy. That filling as many of her wishes truly brought him happiness, and despite some of the events that made my head spin in confusion and irritation, he would have done them over again, gladly and without remorse, if it meant he could have had more time with her.

I learned that a huge part of him died when she did and that no matter how hard he struggled in his fight against the cancer that presented itself while she was dying, his heart was broken and his soul was just waiting to find her again.

I learned that the child they raised held a solid core inside her that I didn’t really know existed until I, and they, needed it the most. That Dad needed me in a way I never knew would be possible helped me view him in a different light, putting our relationship on a tract of understanding and appreciation that might never have occurred. Good can come from the worst, I have learned.

I learned that he had the spirit of an artist, but left his drawing and photography behind as raising a family required what he called a practical job. He funneled his creativity into woodworking and made furniture for his home and family. I still have the album cabinet he made for me when I was 15. We worked on it together in the basement woodshop and he showed me the proper way to sand with the grain, how to shape with a band saw and appreciate different wood types. He taught me power tools are not for men only.

I learned that after he had nearly cut his finger off while working at the table saw he was afraid he would really hurt himself and began to pull away from his beloved woodworking. His hands had begun to shake as he got older and this frightened him almost as much as the accident had.

I learned that he continued to see me as his baby girl, his dreamy bookish girl, his somewhat irresponsible teenager, and it was only after Mom died, that he saw the adult daughter who was stronger then we both knew. He told me this one-day and it made me cry, because I knew our time together was running out.

I learned that he liked order and neatness but hated cleaning.

I learned that he had no understanding of what my job entailed, until I explained it to him in more detail one evening in the hopes that he would see what I did as a real career. He shook his head, baffled at it. And I learned it didn’t really matter what he thought of my job, it mattered what he thought of me, as he told me he was proud of what I had accomplished.

I learned that he was still chauvinistic and didn’t think I should work, but stay home and raise my children. We agreed to disagree on that.

I relearned that he was not perfect and those attributes and flaws living within made him the man that was my father.
I learned he was more open to physical affection than I had known but was uncertain how to give or receive it. Hugs became more regular between us, and I would hold his hand sometimes during his chemo treatments. His hands were large and calloused from years working as a bus mechanic and his woodworking hobby. It broke my heart to see them so bruised, and frail, from chemo needles. We held hands the evening he died and I wish I had held on tighter.

Remembering these things keeps him close as little else does. The sweater I keep in my closet doesn’t smell like him anymore, but it gives me comfort to put it on some days. As days go by little memories vanish as new ones vie for space in my head. My own children and life are etching memories in my mind, crowding out older more elusive ones. And this is how it is supposed to be but I also learned something else, no matter how old a girl gets she still misses her Dad.