Thoughts About My Father

I came home from work and took the pups for a walk. The plan was to go for a ride after our walk but it began to lightly rain so I decided to work on my bike instead of riding it. Doing bike maintenance is therapeutic for me. Sort of the way I feel about working in the yard the first couple months of the season until it stops being enjoyable. Having a healthy way to unwind is important and for me, that typically means a ride. For my father, that meant hours spent tinkering out in the garage or down in the basement in a poorly lit space in the back of the utility room.

When I was a kid my dad would come home from work and he and my mother would sit in the living room and discuss the day; mostly stuff about the office. She'd mix them a drink or two and for maybe an hour they'd sit and talk. I think for the most part my siblings and I were pretty good about not interrupting them. Mom would have dinner cooking or ready and when they were finished talking we'd sit down to eat. It was the routine. After dinner, my dad would retreat to the basement or garage and tinker with whatever project he had on his workbench. I don't have a workbench; I have the opened tailgate of my truck and a few shelves in the garage for my stuff which works well enough for me.

My dad's radio was nearly always tuned to WCCO AM while mine jumps around from Rock to Talk to Christian to Oldies. Today it was Love105.

I'm told that I'm a lot like my dad. I don't necessarily disagree with that but there were some fundamental differences between us. We both joined the Navy after high-school. I was a radar operator (OS2). It wasn't until after I'd been accepted to radar school that I learned my father did the same job while he served in the Canadian Navy.

I think we both could be accused of liking those things we like(d) to excess. The difference between us though would be that some of his excesses were detrimental to his overall health. My excesses have been detrimental to my knees. For years he tried to quit smoking but he wasn't successful. Smoking is what eventually took his life on September 15th, 1995. He developed emphysema in his sixties and wouldn't live to see seventy years old.

If younger smokers could only see how debilitating emphysema is I think many of them would quit. The problem is that most people suffering from emphysema don't venture out into public because of their limitations and so people don't often see how difficult living with the disease can be. My father spent the last several years of his life connected to an oxygen tank. If that wasn't enough to keep him immobile the lack of oxygen to his lungs was. You would think that emphysema was enough to cause him to quit smoking but I don't believe it was.

I'd like to say that I was extremely close to my dad but that wouldn't be true. I loved him as a son loves his father but we spent too little time in conversation for me to claim any great closeness. I didn't know what I was missing at the time but years later I find myself wondering why our relationship was the way it was. He must have known the validation a kid needs from his dad. I don't know that any of my siblings can say they knew our dad as well as their own children know them.

One of my favorite things to do is to sit with Rachel and get inside her head and see what's important to her at the moment. I can't get enough of the time we spend together in conversation. Tammy and I both engage her a lot and she couldn't be more comfortable talking with us.

It was always understood that my father had a difficult childhood having lost both his parents by the age of 9. He talked sparingly about his early life or for that matter any, of his life. We grew up knowing very little about his side of the family. Our summer vacations would occasionally take us into Canada and once, we actually went to where he grew up near Douglas, Ontario.I learned more about my dad through observing him than through talking with him. I regret that about our relationship.

I remember when he was in his final weeks and being cared for in the intensive care unit of the hospital in Hancock. I drove up to visit him and my mother. While I was there I wandered down to the basement of their home where he had all his stuff sitting out—the latest projects and things he'd been tinkering with when he was still healthy enough. His assortment of tools laying around and pieces of wood stored away for use at a later time just as he'd left them. The basement he'd refinished. I saw his radio/tape player sitting on the end table. Neil Young, Old Ways, laid next to it. I pressed play and the Marty Robbins tape inside came to life. I don't recall which song it was but as I sat in his chair and listened, a flood of emotion overcame me. I remember crying so hard for him and hoping that my mother or sister wouldn't come down and see me. I sat there thinking about how simple a man he was but how utterly complex he could also be. I was sad that there would be no more chances for either of us to redo our past. Our relationship was what it was and that's how it would remain.

He died shortly after my visit. We wonder our entire lives how we'll ever deal with the death of our parents. His dying and my reaction to it didn't play out at all how I'd imagined it would. I felt no profound sadness at his passing; only relief for my mother. I felt guilt over that.

I regret that Tammy never knew him.

I'm thankful to him for the safe and comfortable environment he provided for us while growing up. If I had one wish it would be that he would have found more time for not only me but for all of my brothers and sisters. I think we'd all echo that sentiment.