Dad
I originally wrote and read this piece for my Dad’s funeral in late 2019. It’s a brief look at my version of him, which continues to evolve as time passes. There are other versions of him too of course, but I can’t write those. If you knew him, you might enjoy reading this (likely again). If you didn’t know him, don’t sweat it there’s still something for you here too. If you can’t find it though, that’s OK - this was free!
He was born in 1942 to conservative, image conscious suburbanites outside of Detroit Michigan. He was raised in a hard, sterilized and polished shell common to this place and time in America which was built to conceal from the world all the flaws and inconsistencies of the human condition. It was in this place that he first began to understand he didn’t fit. My father detested the notion that you could present yourself as one thing and then behind closed doors reveal yourself as something else entirely. Avoiding this particular brand of lie was his life’s work, his guiding principle, and he stuck to it at all times. This was a great burden to him. To present the truest version of yourself to the world means you often say and do things that you shouldn’t say or do. But, a man with a principle doesn’t make exceptions.
At a time when conformity characterized the social norms he was saddled with the burden of honesty. He struggled because unless the world conforms to you there is no honest form of conformity. At his first opportunity he fled his home, and traded one set of rules for another by joining the Army. Too young for the Korean war, and too old for the Vietnam war his well-timed service amounted to sifting through the madness of bureaucracy and dealing with people for whom even a modicum of power proved entirely corruptible by it. So he drank. He learned to sleep anywhere. He traveled the globe, and he saw places and cultures not yet watered down by our modern connectivity.
At the appointed time he was released from duty. I don’t know the details but over the next decade or so several important things happened that would shape his life: he married, he had three kids; Bill, Pete and Sarah, he graduated from college, and he moved into a false bliss. I can only speculate as to why this life didn’t strike his fancy, but eventually it crumbled. I suspect that he woke up one day or probably over the course of several days, and realized that he was once again living the life of a conformed suburbanite. He punched a clock, he probably had a milk man, his lawn was likely immaculate, and the more orderly things appeared on the outside the more disorderly they would’ve become in his mind. About one thing I do not need to speculate; he loved all three of his children.
With stories and anecdotes to fill a book, I’m sure he took a crooked and wandering path, but eventually he made it out to the mountains of Colorado and settled among a community of villains, outcasts, and heathens. He fit right in. He worked hard for dollars that he unquestionably spent in dumb ways. He spent his days however he saw fit, he dressed however he wanted, let his hair grow wild, and he altered and expressed his mind. This may have been the first time in his life that he truly knew freedom and it was in this setting that he met my mother. With him at the height of his power and strength and in an environment of his own making, I doubt he suspected the effect she would have on him. It would’ve been like the sea crashing against stone, and their battle was destined to rage for the remainder of his days. As he was fond of saying, ‘it was the greatest love story ever told.’
Their relationship created a strange dichotomy within him that fascinated me above all other things about him. He hated authority, yet he submitted to hers. He created for himself a new life in which he was always in a constant state of small rebellion and always on the hunt for escape, lunacy and freedom. Yet, he was so helplessly and totally in love and she was so perfectly his equal and opposite that he was drawn to live in whatever home she would have him in.
He didn’t want to have more kids and told her so. The sea crashed against the stone, and it broke. I was born in the summer of ‘85, and Mikey was born just 15 months later. Whatever reservations he had about me and my brother, we never knew them. I’m sure it was love at first sight because now, with two kids of my own I know exactly the feeling. It’s a father’s fate that one day his children shed the belief that he can do no wrong, and that he’s the strongest and the smartest person on the planet. If we’re so blessed as to have critically thinking and intelligent children, that fate comes early and you get to spend decades butting heads as they incessantly prod you for weaknesses and try to outwit and outperform you. This was my father’s fate. There is no task simple or complex that I did not attempt to do differently and better than he would. However frustrating this was for the both of us, I know that he would have been horrified to have produced a son best known for his skill at following instruction.
He was diagnosed with cancer shortly after I was born. He used to tell us that the doctor gave him something like 6 months to live at that time. He always felt like he had a clock ticking in the background, I’m sure. From a very young age he liked to tell me about how he was probably going to be dead pretty soon. This had the opposite effect from what he intended. Rather than becoming mentally prepared for when the day came, I got it in my head that he was un-killable. I never totally believed my mom when she talked about how near the end he was. His death, while expected provided a rather unexpected shock to me which lasted for days that turned into weeks.
Before he died he told me that he “spent years trying to think of what piece of advice would improve my life the most”. Two months prior to his death he sent me a message that he was “down to the top 10”. He wanted to whittle it down to a single piece of information because then I would remember it better, so he worked on getting from ten down to one. Finally, very near the end, I sat by him and he looked me in the eyes and he said the most important thing he had left to tell me was: “don’t eat so fast.”
I don’t want to belittle his advice, because he was totally serious and even seemed offended when I laughed about it. The truth is he was such an open book all of the time that he had already told me everything else. It is a common affliction that sons must spend their lives trying to impress fathers which cannot be impressed and to win love which will never be acknowledged. Because of who my father was, I don’t suffer from this affliction. I will never have to guess how he felt about me. His advice on fatherhood remains the most important thing that anybody has ever told me on the subject and applies to all relationships: “Just make sure they know how you feel about them, that you love them, and that you will do what you can for them, because in the end you will have been wrong about everything, and even if you were right they will remember it wrong”. A lifetime of reflection on the subject and he had produced a true pearl. Keep it simple, tell people how you feel, and if you love them tell them all the time. None of the other shit really matters.