My own father? Now that's another story. As I have said before, I believe our parents did the best job they could with the resources at their disposal. I don't doubt that they loved us. There are nonetheless huge gaps in the father-daughter relationship as experienced by me.
I was always fascinated listening to my friends talk about their relationships with their fathers. It was like eavesdropping on another world. I could no more relate to their lives than I could to Cinderella and her stepsisters. Friends? Ask for advice? Go to for help? Outings together? You've got to be kidding. What was all that about? My father was the man who paid for everything and never let you forget it. Drove a company car, traveled a lot for work. Never exercised, smoked liked a chimney, was about 75 pounds overweight. And his alcoholism marked me for life.
I was in junior high before I woke up and realized that not everyone's family had a patriarch who behaved like mine. I knew he had more than one personality, and I was never totally sure which one I would encounter when he came home from work, when he did come home. In our house, you didn't talk about it. You didn't ask why dad wasn't home yet, or where he was, or if dinner was going to be late. Everything was fine.
So I never allowed myself to get too close or too involved with him. And that suited both of us just fine. I never gave him any reason to get mad at me; he did anyway. I avoided him as much as possible. He never taught me to dance, or told me I was pretty (I wasn't, so I can't really blame him for that). I observed from afar, both to learn how not to behave, and what I could do to make things better or worse.
I think I was a junior in college before we had a real heart-to-heart conversation. It was on our annual Christmas Eve morning shopping trip where he managed to accomplish in two or three hours what took most people several weeks. Not fair. It always ended with him taking me to lunch, which I think was his honest attempt to connect with me. It was simply many years too late. He could be wonderful when he wanted, which wasn't nearly often enough. He was a masterful chef, and could cook just about any cuisine he attempted. Renowned for his barbecued chicken, anything Chinese (especially chicken wings), and shishkabob, I learned a lot of the subtleties of cooking from him. I also learned how to grow roses, which was his avocation. He would be up with the sun on summer weekends, fussing and pruning and spraying his precious hybrid teas.
He hated the Catholic church, and resented with all his energy sending his kids to Catholic schools, particularly Catholic colleges. Some of that came from watching his own parents grovel to the church and deny their own family to contribute to creepy predatory pastors. That I can understand. But since most of my life in high school and college revolved around my singing in church, that left a fairly large gap. He didn't want to send me to college at all; he said all I would do was get married, and I didn't need college for that. But then he wanted me to attend UC Santa Barbara, and become an oceanographer. Don't ask me where THAT came from! YOU go be an oceanographer! As it turned out, I went to college, and DID get married shortly afterward. Unfortunately, Dad wasn't around for that.
Oddly enough, I did learn some important things from him, although I don't think I realized it while he was alive. He put a supreme value on integrity. I remember when I was in high school, a young salesman that Dad had hired and mentored was discovered to have swindled the company. Dad was furious, but more than that, he was hurt. When confronted, the guilty party had absolutely no remorse, which was the most devastating part of all. I don't think I ever saw him so dejected, and I never forgot that. Because he never went farther than a high school diploma, Dad was always somewhat defensive about his qualifications. He spoke like a true Chicago south-sider, substituting "don't" for "doesn't", and always wanted more for my brothers.
He's been gone for 34 years; I've lived far more of my life without him than I did with him. As an adult, there is so much I wish we could talk about - so many questions I wish I could ask, and almost innumerable do-overs. Not gonna happen, at least not in this world. Mostly, I'm sorry for what both of us missed. We will never get those days back again, never have a second chance to do it right. My father had very interesting and eclectic taste in music - he loved the Mills Brothers, Willie Nelson, and Patsy Cline (OK, two outta three ain't bad). In the months before he died of lung cancer, we'd have breakfast listening to the radio. One morning, a song by Barbara Streisand came on, and he looked at me and told me how much he liked it. So I listened a bit more closely:
"Whatever you are you're going to be, whatever you are is alright with me. You're gonna be what you want anyway, these are the words I heard my Father say...."
So, on the day we buried him, I sang that song at his funeral.
"Wherever you are I'm here by your side, My life is a rope that won't come untied. I'm gonna stand by you right or wrong, these are the words within my Father's song...."
Happy Father's Day, dad.....
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