I wrote about my father on Father's Day, but I'm writing about him again today
because this is the eighteenth anniversary of his passing.
My father was the oldest child in a family of six children.
His mother was sweet and fun loving. His father was all kinds of abusive.
Daddy told me stories about how, as a little boy, his father would supposedly
take him for a fun day at the park but instead, they would end up at the home
of whatever woman his father was seeing on the side. Daddy would sit on the
couch in the woman's home waiting for his father's daliance-du-jour to be over
and then they'd go home.
My father was a bright boy and was moved into the excelerated section of
his eight grade class. He was studying advanced coursework when his father
told him that he wouldn't be going to school anymore. His father took him to
the button factory to work ------ yes ----- full-time. With Daddy's income
secured, my grandfather abandoned the family of seven, six kids and my
grandmother. I don't know anything about my grandfather after that. I
don't know whether he ever returned and was never spoken of, or whether
he was then gone forever.
And that was that. At age fourteen, my father was responsible for supporting
all his siblings and his mother.
Despite that, my father was always a happy guy.
And then he married my mother. My mother, the narcissist.
Happily, they were a near perfect match. He adored her.
I adored my father.
He endured much. He survived much. He laughed often.
My Daddy gave me the kind of love that helped me understand what
love was supposed to be.
If I'd been a baby when he died, I'd be an adult by now. In a way,
I feel like I have grown up, in the years he's been gone.
He probably wouldn't much like what I've been saying about his wife,
my mother. But I know he'd love me, no matter what.
And I will always love him.
