My dad was a pretty cool guy. I grew up hearing stories told by my grandparents about how, when he was 10, they all went to Mexico City. They had separate rooms at the hotel, so when my grandparents woke up and got ready the next day they discovered that my dad had already gotten up, gone down to the dining room and had breakfast, and then proceeded to head out exploring the city in a cab by himself. (It was obviously a different time, as that kind of thing would make my mom’s head explode- mine too, for that matter!) And I heard other stories too, some perhaps a bit misremembered through time (just in case you’re reading, Ma, and see something wrong.J)
He went to Admiral Farragut Academy, in the east, for High School, traveled throughout Europe picking up enough of a number of the local languages to make his way and make friends, enlisted in the army, learned Russian through a government program, and was eventually stationed in Ethiopia as a Russian translator in 1971 or 72. (This was during the Cold war, when the US did everything it could to prop up/support governments, like the aging Ethiopian Emperor Haile Sellassie’s, which were committed to anti-communism. And the Soviets did the same by promoting their own interests, especially among dissidents, thus necessitating American monitoring of Russian activity and broadcasts there. All of which I viewed as very cool and James Bond-like.) While there, he met my mother and married her- and promptly lost his military clearance for such sensitive work. From there, they were stationed in Stuttgart, Germany before coming back the US in 1973. And then he went on to become a pilot and eventually worked for a number of smaller commercial airlines (most of which are gone now) in northern and southern California and Virginia.
Most importantly, however, was how easily he made lifelong friendships with people he worked with, was stationed with, or just met casually. Friends who, even now, 22 years later, will still contact me or my mom or brother because they were thinking about him. Loyal, easygoing, highly intelligent, confident- that was my dad.
And yet I really never knew him. I mean, what kid, when they are a kid, really knows their Mom or Dad. Obviously, a parent, is the authority figure in the child’s life. (And while parents should try to be friends with their children, studies are clear that (in most cases) trying to be your child’s equal and “buddy” can cause a host of problems for them, their sense of position and roles, and for you. But I digress.) My dad was that authority figure for me. And he had to be gone a lot, trying to provide for us, which sometimes involved living somewhere else (like Virginia) and sending back money (It was the early 80's recession, after all). And I don’t know that he knew how to “play” with kids, like wrestling or catch or things like that. But he did his best- and it was enough. My clearest memories with my dad involve playing Monopoly, Stratego and Risk with him. I mean, I think about that and am amazed. Here’s an adult trying to play a strategy game with 10 and 8 year old sons as a way of connecting to them. It couldn't have been that much fun or a challenge for him, but he did it. And I remember his taking us movies like Superman or (the movie that changed my life in the summer of 1980) The Empire Strikes Back ;)
But still, I didn’t really know him. And I wasn't able to continue to get to know him as I grew up. He died in a motorcycle accident on May 21, 1988, when I was 13. Obviously, it affected me- how could it not? And so many people were there for us. But the worst part, I think, has always been the fact that I never really got to learn who he was, to work with him as I got older, to talk to him about girls, or about life, getting married, being a father, or whatever. I never got to be old enough that we could become equals and friends and go out for beers and experience that side of him that some many others did. I just have my limited memories and the stories that are told to me by my mom, my grandparents and cousins, as well as his old friends.
This isn’t supposed to be depressing, so bear with me.
I have a son and he is almost 12. We have a very close relationship. And my relationship with my ex-wife Julie, is a good one. We actually take turns being the one with primary custody so that we both get a chance (2 or 3 years at a time) to be the school parent and the weekend/vacation parent. It works out to about a 60/40 split, though whichever parent doesn’t have him talks to him regularly every day as well. And there are those emergencies and such where one of us will travel to where the other is, to help, if needed. All in all, it’s the best of this kind of situation.
This year, Connor started Middle School in Colorado Springs. (Then I'll get him for High School). So suddenly I find myself with a much quieter and less Lego-cluttered house. But more than that, I found myself thinking (again) about what would happen to Connor if something happened to me. No, I’m not really worried about his life with his mom and step-father. I think they will do fine. It’s just that if something were to happen to me, would it affect him the same way it affected me? Would he wonder at who his father was? Because while we have done virtually everything together since his birth and are very close, I am still always his father first. His friend, and now lately, confidante- which really moved me-, but still his father first: accepting, teaching, encouraging, and guiding.
I had often thought of writing some kind of journal or something for him, filled with advice about life, my own stories and experiences, things I’ve learned, how I feel about him and so on. I remembered the experience of a man who was in a Soviet prison for his faith and so couldn’t be there for his 2 daughters. So instead, he sent them postcards and letters over many years, doing his best to be their father even when he couldn’t be there in person. Those girls- now grown women with children of their own- cherished those letters and cards and still have them to this day. I thought, ‘I could do that.’ I even thought of doing something on the interwebs so that it would be there forever and then of letting my brother know so that in case anything happened, Connor’d always have it.
Recently, we attended a great family reunion in Grand Lake, CO and afterward we spent some time with my dear cousins George and Kathy Ross, and Vickie Rheinlander. I just really liked spending time with them, and they proved to be real friends when there was an emergency. George and I talked about a myriad of subjects (and I fear I talked his ear off- just like I’m doing now J ) and I mentioned my idea. He proceeded to tell me that he had just participated in a program of that very thing: writing letters to sons, daughters, wives and parents expressing your feelings, your love, hopes and appreciation for them. He shared some of his beautiful letters and told me of the reactions he received and his own feelings about it, the peace he felt in doing so.
I was moved. This is what I had wanted to do. And now, now was the time, now that I wouldn’t be able to be with him everyday. And so I started. I got the nice linen paper and pen, I made a special place for him to keep them at his mom’s house, and I wrote. One letter, so far, to be followed by more.
I don’t think he really knows what it’s for, yet. But that’s ok. He’s young and kids don’t always know what you are doing for them. He liked it and told me “This is really cool.” That’s enough for now. Because it’s not really for now. It’s for later, for whenever he needs me when I can’t be there. For whenever he needs advice, or needs to know that I love and am proud of him and he can’t get to me or I to him. And so that he will always have something of me and can get to know me. I plan to be around for that, of course. Who doesn’t? But “time and unforeseen occurrence befall us all.” (Ecclesiastes 9:11)
In any case, I just want to always be a part of his life, and this way I can.
Thanks George.
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