shouldazagged
Absent Comrade
Recessional for Father's Day, 2018
I am a lesser son of a great man, who died seventeen years ago, days after he turned ninety. I'm grateful that he didn't live to see the mess the world has gotten itself in since he left us. He was already heartbroken by what he had seen, but at least he missed 9/11/01.
I have always thought of him on Father's Day, but now in my own old age the memories are especially honed. They are recollections of his many achievements as a distinguished journalist, a minister, and a father to look up to. They are remembrances of his fondness for singing, for no apparent reason, the opening phrase of "The Song Of The Volga Boatmen", in bad Russian. They are memories of his sly sense of humor--he once described a pastor of our church, as a man who "didn't know his apse from his nave"--and his awful puns.
They include remembering that he was raised to believe that a father didn't show physical affection to a boy child over the age of six, and that he could not accept a hug from me except once, when it touched him but made him wretchedly uncomfortable. They enclose the long, long fact that I never heard him say he loved me, but always knew absolutely that he did
There is a ridiculous anime cartoon series that for some inscrutable Japanese reason has as its closing theme "Last Train Home", by the Pat Metheny Group. It's a song I like, and one video of it is shots of steam railroad locomotives, great thundering beasts pulling trains to who knows where. I remember the trains fondly, but today I recall riding them to Tennessee when I was a child, so my mother, my younger brother and I could spend summers with my maternal grandparents and various aunts and uncles. Dad always stayed at home and went to work every at the Louisville Courier-Journal. If he ever complained I never heard it. When I started getting summer jobs he and I would live the bachelor life, and he always seemed to accept that.
My one concession to this Father's Day, other than writing this, is to make a big pot of chili--not true Texas red, but the kind I grew up eating in my home state and here in Kentucky. I never do this without remembering one of my father's favorite breakfast dishes--toasted saltines topped with scrambled eggs and chili. Think of it as Tennessee huevos rancheros. I dedicate the chili to Dad, and hope he would have enjoyed it.
A dear friend has posted on Facebook today a recollection of the complicated relationship she had with her father. It was moving, and prompted me to write this. It made me think that most of us, as we advance in years, could look back on departed parents and see complexities, not all of them happy ones. Some choose not to, and nostalgia is a lovely thing. But no parent is perfect or does a perfect job of child rearing. I was a lousy parent when my children were young, a drunk so ashamed of myself that I avoided seeing them until I finally sobered up. They love me today, but they haven't forgotten. They will never forget.
I think perhaps the most fitting way for me to recall my imperfect parents with love is to love them comprehensively, aware of their frailties and failings and letting those things be part of a picture I cherish, and hang intact on the walls of memory.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I am a lesser son of a great man, who died seventeen years ago, days after he turned ninety. I'm grateful that he didn't live to see the mess the world has gotten itself in since he left us. He was already heartbroken by what he had seen, but at least he missed 9/11/01.
I have always thought of him on Father's Day, but now in my own old age the memories are especially honed. They are recollections of his many achievements as a distinguished journalist, a minister, and a father to look up to. They are remembrances of his fondness for singing, for no apparent reason, the opening phrase of "The Song Of The Volga Boatmen", in bad Russian. They are memories of his sly sense of humor--he once described a pastor of our church, as a man who "didn't know his apse from his nave"--and his awful puns.
They include remembering that he was raised to believe that a father didn't show physical affection to a boy child over the age of six, and that he could not accept a hug from me except once, when it touched him but made him wretchedly uncomfortable. They enclose the long, long fact that I never heard him say he loved me, but always knew absolutely that he did
There is a ridiculous anime cartoon series that for some inscrutable Japanese reason has as its closing theme "Last Train Home", by the Pat Metheny Group. It's a song I like, and one video of it is shots of steam railroad locomotives, great thundering beasts pulling trains to who knows where. I remember the trains fondly, but today I recall riding them to Tennessee when I was a child, so my mother, my younger brother and I could spend summers with my maternal grandparents and various aunts and uncles. Dad always stayed at home and went to work every at the Louisville Courier-Journal. If he ever complained I never heard it. When I started getting summer jobs he and I would live the bachelor life, and he always seemed to accept that.
My one concession to this Father's Day, other than writing this, is to make a big pot of chili--not true Texas red, but the kind I grew up eating in my home state and here in Kentucky. I never do this without remembering one of my father's favorite breakfast dishes--toasted saltines topped with scrambled eggs and chili. Think of it as Tennessee huevos rancheros. I dedicate the chili to Dad, and hope he would have enjoyed it.
A dear friend has posted on Facebook today a recollection of the complicated relationship she had with her father. It was moving, and prompted me to write this. It made me think that most of us, as we advance in years, could look back on departed parents and see complexities, not all of them happy ones. Some choose not to, and nostalgia is a lovely thing. But no parent is perfect or does a perfect job of child rearing. I was a lousy parent when my children were young, a drunk so ashamed of myself that I avoided seeing them until I finally sobered up. They love me today, but they haven't forgotten. They will never forget.
I think perhaps the most fitting way for me to recall my imperfect parents with love is to love them comprehensively, aware of their frailties and failings and letting those things be part of a picture I cherish, and hang intact on the walls of memory.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
