Dad Tuesdays

So, before we get started today, I figured I better mention that this coming weekend is my birthday.  And I’m going to be out of town.  So next week’s installment might be a little later than expected.  But don’t fret!  I’ll be back (said in proper Arnold fashion.)

Dads are pretty amazing.  Often they serve as the disciplinarian of the house—which my step-dad often did.  But Dads also have a different kind of wisdom than Moms do.  I found my Dads often had advice on how to survive in the world and thrive in it whereas my Mom(s) were always there to help me try to make sense of the world—and buy me cool clothes.

I think, though, that I’ve always kind of had a special place in my heart for my Dad—my step-dad that is.  He helped Mom raise me, and I know that couldn’t have been easy.  I was far from perfect as a kid, but Dad always pushed me to do better.  He helped me to explore areas of life that I’m not sure I would have without him—like sports for instance.  And when my Mom went back to school for nursing, he became the support network for our lives—helping with school stuff for both of us.

I remember him making me spend an hour every day at the piano, and I credit him for a lot of my love and passion for music (not all of it, though, ‘cause singing in the car on long trips with Mom and at church was also part of that love.)  I also remember him encouraging me to find answers for myself.  I won’t say I’ve always been really good at it, but he is someone who helped me to realize that there are always other sides to the story, and that the people telling the story often have their own reasons for doing so.  He invited me to look beyond what was being said and to try and find the truth hidden between the lines.

The one thing I love about my parents is that they’re both dedicated, independent, and creative people.  That was never more evident than when my step-Dad started painting.  One of my favorite paintings of his is not the one he did for my birthday (though my hidden dragon ranks up there;) it’s a painting he did of the jungle in Vietnam.  The painting is a study of light and shadows and what’s hidden within them.  And to me, it’s both thought-provoking and emotionally evocative of the way that America has tried to hide that part of its past (but it’s still there.)

Just recently he also got awarded the Firefighter of the Year award in Bellville where they live.  I’m so proud of him for that, and when I talk to him on the phone, I can tell he’s having a good time with that—putting out fires, helping on accident calls.  Dad was always called to serve—from the Marines to the volunteer fire department.  And he is one of the many reasons I want to work at making the world a better place.

My real dad was a police officer for Miami, and before that he was part of the Air Force.  I remember seeing these hardcover books that Mom was unpacking at one point—books of fairytales.  She told me she got them when she was with my Dad up in Minnesota.  The idea of her walking to work in the cold sounds crazy to me, but it also sounds like something a Florida girl might really enjoy.  I may not know much about their life before me, and while they were divorced when I was two, my real Dad never stopped being a part of my life.

I don’t know that it was easy for him, and I’m not sure he ever felt really comfortable with who he was as a person, but I know he tried to be a good man.  And I know he loved his kids.  He may not always have made the best choices in the world, but I hope that he found some happiness in his life.

My real dad passed away in August of 1999.  He was living in Vero Beach with his wife, Marion.  He’d lived 13 years after his bypass surgery—which was phenomenal, and longer than he’d been expected to live after the heart attack.

Yet, even knowing all of that, there is so much I still feel like I don’t know about my Dad.  Did he have a favorite drink?  What did he like to do?  What were his favorite books?  His favorite meals?  What kind of music did he like to listen to?  What made him happy?

I know those questions can never be answered now, and a part of me is truly saddened by that.  But there is another part of me that is glad that I have the photos and the memories that I do have.  I only wish I had realized how important those would be now that he’s gone.  I wish I had known him better, and I wish he were still around to talk to sometimes.

Part of the reason I started these blogs was because of him.  Maybe in some foolish way I hoped that he’d see the person I was becoming—get a chance to know me through my words even after he was gone.  I like to think that somewhere out there, my Dad is sitting down in the evenings to open this page and look it over—making sure I’m doing all right.

So, hey, Dad—if you’re out there reading this somehow—I’m doing good, but I sure do miss you.

Since moving out here to California, I’ve had the wonderful experience of getting to know John’s grandparents on his Mom’s side of the family.  His grandmom on his Dad’s side had passed away shortly before I came out, and his grandad was living in an assisted living home.  I don’t know that I ever really got to know PJ (Papa John,) but over the years, I have gotten to know John’s Dad.

He really cares about doing the right thing—in his life and for the planet and the world that comes after him.  From him I’ve gotten to know the kind of love and warmth that his family showed to others.  He’s always trying to help out in any way he can, and he loves to paint.  There are SO MANY paintings here at the house that he’s done, and I’ve had the pleasure of helping to name a few before they were headed off to Chemers Gallery—where he shows and sells his art.  I will admit a little sadness that my step-dad hasn’t gotten back into art and painting, but I am super glad that John’s Dad is an artist.  He loves eucalyptus tress, pizza nights, and ensuring that the words we use retain their rightful meanings.  (Not everything should be described as awesome, after all.)

And I’m pretty sure that he and John drank more beer while he was here than most people do in a year.  I gather interesting beers are hard to find in Russia, though.

I will admit that I am glossing over each of these men in my life in the most perfunctory ways—trying my best to give you a picture of them, however imperfect it may be.  Each of them is important to me, though, and I hope I have conveyed some of that through my words.

Sure do miss you guys, though.

Guess I’ll always be something of a Daddy’s little girl.

Love you