Category — flashbacks

Recently, I’ve fielded some inquiries about how I became- and remain- an unabashed Daddy’s girl. I’m also a firm believer that Father’s Day doesn’t get near the attention it deserves, so there really isn’t a more appropriate time to attempt an explanation. It is said that our mothers bring us to the self, while our fathers bring us to the world. Your mileage may vary.

I fear the one-dimensional nature of the page may have given a Jekyll and Hyde impression of the man who brought me to the world. There is some truth in that portrayal; my father and I share a penchant for intense extremes and mercurial mood swings. Certainly, many of my most vivid memories lie at either end of his emotional range, as well as my own. Beneath even the most tumultuous tides, however, a gentle but constant current runs through fathoms of still water teeming with all the beauty and mystery of the sea.

There is no denying the subtle pull of shared consciousness and genetic code; we are a part of each other, and those like parts call to each other from a deep sense of knowing, an understanding that extends beyond the boundaries of words to the silent harmony of like energy. For me, at least, there is a cellular satisfaction- a key in the lock of my secret self that brings a sense of order to a still strange world.

For his part, I can only offer the story he’s told me nearly once a year for three decades and witness to that glance of wonder and pride I still occasionally inspire.

It bothered me not to know my biological parents. I love your Grandpa and Grandma, and they love(d) me, but it bothered me not to know my blood. Every so often, I would do a little digging to try and find them. That ended the day I held you in my arms. I looked at you and I thought to myself “I don’t need to go looking for family anymore, because I made my own. My blood runs through her veins”.

Score one for biology, but obviously its significance beyond providing a well-spring of devotion and motivation is debatable. Particularly for two very proud, stubborn and opinionated people. I offer my sister as evidence; she and Dad love each other deeply and dearly but her connection with Mom is stronger. Happily, they seem to grow closer as the years go on.

I could speak to his incredible openness. He brought me to the world without pretense or boundary, never failing to find a truthful way to explain difficult subjects in a manner I could absorb, only reserving a few sacred cows of privacy in his attempt to teach me to live well.

Talking about how much you make and spend in public makes other people uncomfortable. We like to pretend we don’t know who has more, but you can usually tell by what they’re wearing and what they’re drinking. I want you to understand how all of this works, so I’m going to share this information with you, but it isn’t yours to share with anyone else.

We often sat at the kitchen table together while he paid bills and balanced his checkbook. He showed me his pay stubs, the mortgage statement, year-end credit card summaries, insurance policies, checkbook registers, grocery store receipts- my lessons started as soon as I could grasp basic arithmetic.

As I traded knee socks for stockings, he handled the heavier and awkward subjects with as much grace and honesty as he could muster: love, sex, violence, drugs, death, religion, politics- no general subject was verboten. His constant disclaimer still stands today: these are my answers, and should only be a starting point in forming your own.

I could speak to his humility, and it is perhaps the most deserving of my attention- many of our bloodier battles are enshrined in monuments to peace built from his willingness and ability to admit his imperfections. Much of the bedrock of my self-esteem is made of the same stone, stacked in his acceptance of my own shortcomings.

We are who we are, and the smartest people are always learning, growing, trying to be our best selves. Everybody fails all the time, though. You do what you can with what you have, you play the cards you’re dealt. Sometimes you win a hand, sometimes you fuck it up, but the only mistakes you should be ashamed of are the ones you don’t admit and learn from. I don’t care who you are, everyone fucks up a hand. I do it all the time.

These virtues are incredible gifts to me. They are what make me who I am- not the sweetest moments or the darkest moments, but the quiet hours of instruction and reflection. He supports me in any number of countless ways, and that too is a precious resource and a mitigating factor in much of my success so far. His devotion is unfailing, and that makes my appreciation of everything else possible.

The real secret behind my adoration of my Dad is simple but potent.

At every point in our sometimes stormy relationship, he is willing to grow as a person, a man and a father to retain my love and respect. He doesn’t just bestow his approval when I earn it, he makes a determined if imperfect effort to earn mine. His demons are a fierce and mighty legion, more cruel and cunning than some men could stand. He doggedly beats them back into the dark recesses of his soul to leave enough room for our bond. The greatest compliment he’s ever given me: learning how to be the father you deserve makes me a better man.

His flaws and failures are just so much rain in the sea, because my father taught me that real love never stops trying to love better.

Happy Father’s Day.

My father’s career began when he was seventeen. His father had just passed away, and so he finished his senior year in parochial school while selling cameras at Sears in the evenings. It was the first of many commissioned sales jobs he would have over the years.

By the time I came along, he had worked and picketed at the Detroit Free Press, served a tour in Vietnam, earned a business degree and sold a dozen different products. He sold himself the whole life insurance policy he would later give to me as seed money, from Prudential.

His job history is spotty for the first few years of my life; he had a new title, Daddy, and we spent long hours fishing in his boat on the lake nearby. He did odd jobs here and there, and a month never went by that he didn’t help Mom with the bills even when he was out of work.

My little sister’s arrival required something a little more substantial, and Mom grew weary of the financial inconsistency. So when I started first grade (approximately), my Dad started his new job as a Custodian-Laborer at the Post Office.

The transition was hard for me; he had no seniority, which meant that he worked afternoons and midnights, and weekends off were unheard of. He met with the principal of my elementary school, and for most of that first year, I walked home for lunch. We would sit at the table with our sandwiches or canned ravioli, watching CNN and talking. He dropped me back off at school on his way to work, and I usually managed to hide my tears until he pulled away.

My nocturnal nature soon became evident. I lay in bed until just after eleven, when I would hear his key turn in the lock. The crinkle of the potato chip bag was my cue, I padded down the hall and crawled up on the couch with him to watch the evening news. The first few nights he attempted to send me back to bed, but I was persistent and he eventually gave up any guise of chasing me back to the blankets.

On a raw, chilly day in November, I was called from my middle school English class to receive a phone call in the office. This was unheard of, and I knew it was very, very bad. I sat across from the Vice Principal’s desk and took the receiver to hear my Mom breathless on the line.

I wanted to call you. Your Dad is okay. There’s been a shooting at the Post Office. I know you have televisions in your classrooms. He called me from the bar next door- he’s fine. I can’t talk, honey, I have to go, but I just wanted you to know.

You would think that would be the worst thing that could happen at work. It was not. My poor father, already shaken and haunted by a near-miss with horrific violence, was expected as a Custodian to clean up the mess left by the gunman. Fortunately, he was also an active union member and served as a steward for years. They fought back, and an outside crew was hired.

Atlanta was not anymore hospitable than Royal Oak. His supervisor goaded and tortured him, and nearly got him fired before being terminated himself. When Mom finally retired in 2002, he transferred back to Michigan with a palatable sigh of relief.

Tonight, he will retire after nearly thirty years of service. His tour of duty with the United States Post Office ends tonight, he is punching out for the last time. His coworkers had a party for him a few days ago, complete with champagne and hot dogs. If you know my father at all, it was a fitting feast.

This man has worked his fingers to the bone his entire life to take care of his family. Countless offers were made to promote him to management, which would have meant better hours, a higher base salary, and no more mopping. He turned them down every time to keep his overtime and be available to his family. He sacrificed his own formidable potential in the business world to work as a janitor, because it allowed his wife to pursue her own corporate ambitions, because it allowed his daughters to have field trip chaperones, class parents, and assistant coaches.

This is just my job. Your Mama has a career. You and your sister- you are my career.

As a child, he appeared to me as half-machine; the man worked every single holiday and overtime shift he could get his hands on, he labored tirelessly to bring home every last penny possible. For us, for our house and our yard, for our annual vacations to the Florida Keys, for prom dresses and wedding gowns, new cars, glasses and contacts, groceries and goodies.

Congratulations, Daddy, and thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Love Always,
Cathy