As we approach this holiday, here's a shout out to all the fathers out there, especially the newest father in my world, Chris. I'm so proud of him in this new role that he was tailor-made for.
I'm also remind of my father, who would be 96 this year, if he were alive.
He was the oldest of eight, from an incredibly dysfunctional family. We lived near them when we were growing up, but my Mom had the presence of mind to limit our exposure to the craziness that was ever present.
Daddy was a hard worker, with an excellent work ethic. I'm grateful my brothers and I inherited that.
As I've mentioned before, he was illiterate. His folks made him stay home to work and help raise his brothers and sisters.
His relationship with his own kids was strained and distant. We had very little direct contact with him even though we lived under the same roof. We learned early how to stay out his way. He was a volatile alcoholic, a mean drunk.
My most vivid memories of him involve cleaning up his vomit during his weekend binges. Believe me when I say it has been an excellent deterrent in keeping me away from drugs and alcohol. I didn't want to grow up and be like him.
Neither did my brothers.
Truthfully, he had no idea how to be a father.
He worked hard and provided a living as best he could under the circumstances, but beyond that, he had nothing to give.
Thank God, my Mom had a reservoir of common sense, that she dispensed liberally as we were growing up.
My two older brothers had it much harder than Terry and I because by the time we came along much later, he had mellowed out.
Even still, I don't ever remember having a conversation with him . . . ever. We must have, but honestly, I don't remember.
We all left home as soon as we could and never returned to live. Once we escaped, there was no desire to return, except to see Mom.
For many years I was angry with him, but I realized he was doing the best he could with his skill set. So, I moved from anger to pity. I felt sorry for him. He missed and mangled so many opportunities.
How did he live with that in his old age? Were there regrets? Did he know how we felt about him? Did he care?
So, Father's Day brings mixed emotions. I'm sad about my own father, but I'm so grateful for the fathers that Ben and Frankie have become.
They have broken this generational curse, and for that I'm so very grateful and so very proud.
Happy Father's Day.
I'm also remind of my father, who would be 96 this year, if he were alive.
He was the oldest of eight, from an incredibly dysfunctional family. We lived near them when we were growing up, but my Mom had the presence of mind to limit our exposure to the craziness that was ever present.
Daddy was a hard worker, with an excellent work ethic. I'm grateful my brothers and I inherited that.
As I've mentioned before, he was illiterate. His folks made him stay home to work and help raise his brothers and sisters.
His relationship with his own kids was strained and distant. We had very little direct contact with him even though we lived under the same roof. We learned early how to stay out his way. He was a volatile alcoholic, a mean drunk.
My most vivid memories of him involve cleaning up his vomit during his weekend binges. Believe me when I say it has been an excellent deterrent in keeping me away from drugs and alcohol. I didn't want to grow up and be like him.
Neither did my brothers.
Truthfully, he had no idea how to be a father.
He worked hard and provided a living as best he could under the circumstances, but beyond that, he had nothing to give.
Thank God, my Mom had a reservoir of common sense, that she dispensed liberally as we were growing up.
My two older brothers had it much harder than Terry and I because by the time we came along much later, he had mellowed out.
Even still, I don't ever remember having a conversation with him . . . ever. We must have, but honestly, I don't remember.
We all left home as soon as we could and never returned to live. Once we escaped, there was no desire to return, except to see Mom.
For many years I was angry with him, but I realized he was doing the best he could with his skill set. So, I moved from anger to pity. I felt sorry for him. He missed and mangled so many opportunities.
How did he live with that in his old age? Were there regrets? Did he know how we felt about him? Did he care?
So, Father's Day brings mixed emotions. I'm sad about my own father, but I'm so grateful for the fathers that Ben and Frankie have become.
They have broken this generational curse, and for that I'm so very grateful and so very proud.
Happy Father's Day.
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