My father was a good man, a good role model. With him, it was pretty simple: I could count on him and knew what to expect. With him, he expressed his love, not so much with words but deeds: he always picked up the check. But beyond the surface, I didn’t know him very well. To me, at least, he never expressed his feelings; and like him, I’m not very adapted at that skill either. I can only remember my father getting angry at me twice (that’s right, only twice); once when I threw a pencil at my mother and narrowly missed an eye; and during my last talk with him when I suggested he sign a living will. My father never understood why I thought that would be a good idea. He became extremely angry, and I’m not sure he forgave me before he died.
Other incidents involving me that should’ve have ticked him off…and many of those incidents became part of our family’s oral history…weren’t serious enough to warrant much of a reaction from him, nothing more than a spanking. And he always said it hurt him more than it did me. Maybe it did. But how do I know? Whenever I blew a rod, he’d fix it: he could fix anything. Whenever I ran a battery down necking out in the boondocks somewhere, he’d retrieve the car. But when it came down to long talks, we never had them.
This is what my father passed on to me. His actions were generous as opposed to my criticism of him. We never had a long talk, so valued by so many people before a parent dies; so now I don’t have all the information I need to write a complete biography of him. This also means that without knowing what my father really thought I won’t be able to complete my story and healing will remain much more difficult than it otherwise would’ve been. I’m sure I’ll write about my father. It’ll have to be fiction, though.
Good night, Randy