Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad, his brother, sister and cousins, during the 1950s.  


My dad was born on this date in 1942. He was a war-time baby, born while his father was serving overseas during World War II. I have no idea where my grandfather was stationed, nor what he did. Such are the perils of having a father who did not speak much of his past and of living thousands of miles from my grandparents.

Once, during a college break, my dad took me to the local bakery for donuts. I probably had an apple fritter and he probably had a lot of coffee. Out of the clear blue, he began to tell me about the last time his father ever hit him. My dad said he grabbed a shotgun and pointed it at my grandfather and said, "If you ever hit me again, I'll kill you." After that, my grandfather never touched him again.

I heard whispers that my grandfather was an alcoholic. It was hard for me to imagine this quiet, gruff, slow-moving man as a raging, violent alcoholic, because by the time I knew him, he was worn out and broken and concerned mostly about the production of his vegetable garden. I did witness him whacking a catfish to death in a utility sink once, but that's really beside the point.

We only visited his house in Ohio a time or two--once when my dad sent my mom on a car-trip with us four children (my sister was 3, my other sister was 10, I was 11, my brother was 12). My mother was under strict orders from my dad not to tell anyone that he intended to divorce her. Their relationship was so distorted, that she agreed to this deception, for some reason and off we went, stuffed into our blue Renault, driving across the country. The only serious mishap we had was outside of Spokane, Washington, when my mother grew so distracted while making sandwiches as she drove that she ran into the guardrail along the freeway. I remember banging my head hard against the window and everyone screaming, but we were fine. Just a scrape and a dent along the side of the car. She didn't tell my dad about this accident until we got home.

So, we drove and drove--before the days of Gameboys and DVD players in cars. We stopped at Wall Drug Store in South Dakota (or North Dakota--it's so pathetic that I can't keep them straight). We saw Mt. Rushmore. I remember nothing else of the trip, other than the small bear/monkey I bought that was able to suck its thumb. I carried this little stuffed animal with me during the rest of the trip. I also remember that I wore rainbow toe-kneesocks witn pockets on them during this trip. I was very fashionable for an 11 year old.

We stayed with my grandparents in their drafty house, which smelled of mothballs and stale food. My brother was traumatized for many years after that trip when he would recall how Grandma Chloe (pronounced KLOW, rhymes with SLOW) made tuna salad without draining the oil from the can. Let's just say, we were all kind of grossed out by the vast quantifies of home-cooking.

My grandfather had mellowed and I have very little memory of him speaking or actually doing anything.

But this is supposed to be about my dad, isn't it?

My dad left home when he was 18. He was already an avid ham radio operator and had an interest in the radio business. But he went to Central Bible College in Minneapolis, Minnesota, to become a minister.

He met my mother, a fellow student, and very quickly, they were engaged, then married. They were both 19. One calamity after the next occurred and before they knew what hit them, they were college drop-outs and the parents of a baby with another on the way. My brother was born when they were 20 and I was born 16 months later. My sister was born 16 months after that, so by the time my dad was 24, he was the father of three children. By then, he didn't even attend church with us. His faith had taken a major beating by the hardships of life.

He couldn't seem to find just the right job and if he didn't quit, he was fired. He worked in a jello factory, he plucked chickens, he sold china door to door, he worked as a disc jockey, he worked in a meat market. He fixed televisions, he did manual labor, he sold stuff. They moved a lot--twenty-five times in five years--and not just from one street to the next. They lived in Wisconsin, Kansas, Montana, Minnesota, Wisconsin again and finally Washington state, where my dad finally landed a job he deemed worthy of him. He was a ship-to-shore radio operator. He worked graveyard, midnight to eight in the morning. He held this job for thirteen years and then the company closed down his station and laid him off.

Which happened right after I had qualified for a full four-year scholarship through the company. Bummer for me.

My dad was a creative soul with an analytical, logical mind. So many things interested him--SCUBA diving, hiking in the mountains, visiting Russian ships in the ports of Seattle, building computers from kits, fixing radios, televisions, anything electronic, ham radio, building things (a swing for the front porch, an entire room, a desk), traveling, comedy, community theater. He loved to travel and went to Australia, explored Europe by train and the United State by motorcycle.

He loved to laugh and had such a distinctive, hearty, belly-laugh that comedians and actors on stage loved having him in their audience. He would laugh so hard at Johnny Carson or Hee-Haw that he would rock his body up and down in his recliner, making it open and close in rhythm with his laughter. My dad's laughter was better than sunshine, better than summer vacation, better than chocolate.

He loved chocolate chip cookies, good donuts, pizza, Paul Harvey on the radio, riding his motorcycle, and Sunday drives in the Cascade mountains.

On my wedding day, he looked so handsome in his rented tuxedo. I sort of insisted that he get a tux--he was just going to wear a brown suit. As he walked me down the aisle--his first child to marry, his oldest daughter--I thought I might burst into tears, so I leaned and said, "Say something funny," but he couldn't hear me and by the time I said again, urgently, "Say something funny!" we were half-way down the aisle and gulping back our tears.

My favorite wedding picture of us shows big smiles verging on hysterical laughter. The photographer had said to us, "What's her nickname?" and my dad paused and I hissed to him, "DON'T YOU DARE!" and he chuckled and I choked back laughter because his nickname for me--one of many--was "Spongy-butt." (No, Dad, I don't have any body-image issues. Thanks much.) Boy, we look happy in that picture. We were happy, too.

I moved with my new husband to Connecticut and while we were there, my dad surprised us with an October visit. He and I drove to Vermont, snapping photographs of the changing leaves in the foggy mist. That was his last October.

The next spring, he was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma. He died four months later. I arranged his funeral, hosted the luncheon afterwards, went through his shirts and shoes and drawers full of stuff. I found a stack of letters and cards deep in his closet. Rubberbanded together was every note, card and letter I'd ever sent to him, from the time I was a small child to my days as a new bride working in a law office. This man--the unsentimental, intimidating, multi-faceted man--kept his heart hidden, too. I didn't know the true depths of his love for me until I unbanded that stack of letters, until he was gone. I was gypped. Three weeks after he turned 47, he died.

A close friend of his told me in the following months, "You were his shining star." I didn't know. I didn't realize he was proud of me, that he missed me, that he adored me. Until afterwards.

He was a remarkable, complicated, wounded man. He was my dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you.