A Strong-Armed Hug

Today.

22 years ago today.

I am 43 years old.  Fatherlessness has been my story for over half my life; 22 years, today.

22 years without a father’s advice. 

22 years without a father’s laugh.

22 years without a father’s hug.

Much of this past week I found myself reflecting upon my Dad.  The days leading up to April 26 often lay out the same.  As I reflected it occurred to me, I really have no emotionally negative memories of him.  That is curious to me because I know he was no perfect man. 

Who of us men are? 

Even the spankings I recall are tempered now in my mind with the understanding that he loved me enough to bring consequences to bear on my willful disobedience. 

It seems to me the further we get in time from a relationship that is severed – and a passing is a severance to be sure – the more any memories that were emotionally impactful rise and remain, while those that were less impactful, or not impactful at all, fall and fade away. 

For some relationships the most lasting and emotionally impactful memories were negative.  As they rise and remain, they haunt us and harden the days we live.  In these cases, the further away in time the relationship becomes, the better; a sort of good riddance.

For other relationships – like I am realizing even now with my Dad – the most lasting and emotionally impactful memories were positive.  As they rise and remain, they soften us and melt us in moments of nostalgia.  In these cases – again, as I am realizing with my Dad – the further away in time the relationship becomes, the more we miss the individual. 

I was asked this week if I felt loved by my Dad.  That’s a short answer:  Yes. 

The next question was how?  That’s a longer answer to be sure.

My Dad loved me by sharing his life with me.  He had interests and hobbies and skills that soared way beyond the daily grind of a factory worker. 

He loved to sing and play guitar.  I have meaningful and lasting memories of sitting on the floor around the coffee table in the living room as my Dad played songs from the old Yohann Anderson song book.  He’d lift his tenored voice higher than the ceiling for “I’ve Got A River of Life” and “The Butterfly Song” and “Amazing Grace.”  Sometimes a campfire song, sometimes a silly song, sometimes a praise song, but no matter, it was always a sing-along song.  I have that guitar still and I think I’ll pull it out and play it and sing with the kids this evening.

He loved to cut hair.  He was a barber by trade.  I have meaningful and lasting memories of getting haircuts at his barber shop on Meridian Street across from the Haggen store.  I remember the bright florescent lights that lit up the mirror.  I remember the brown leather hulk of a barber chair with cast iron moldings and a long grainy strap hanging off the arm to sharpen his razors.  I remember the old cash register with its thick buttons and loud chime when the cash drawer popped open.  I remember the penny gumball machine that stood floor to eye level for every pint-sized patron like myself to oogle on the way in and pay into on the way out.  I have some of his barber tools still and I think I’ll give my son a trim later using the comb and the scissors and the brush. 

He loved to take drives anywhere and everywhere.  I have meaningful and lasting memories of the long drive up to Grandpa’s house on Sunday afternoons or out to the beach at Birch Bay.  First the big white Chevy Beaumont and then the little brown Honda Civic.  He’d race through the gears and speed around corners.  I never told my mom how he drove when she wasn’t in the car.  It seemed like his cars were always jacked up in the garage for one thing or the other.  I remember pumping the brakes of the Honda for what felt like hours as he bled the system one evening.  I have a few parts from that car sitting around somewhere and I think I’ll go dig them out.

Goodness, I could go on and on about my Dad…  About his Superman cape or his eye patch or his half-gallons of ice cream or his green leisure suit or his dock-start waterski technique or his microwave bread or his carnations for Mom on her special days or his deep-set blue eyes or his advice or his laugh or…goodness, I guess I did go on and on, didn’t I?

But I miss him…for over half my life now, I miss him.

Time has not turned a page on a single memory I have of him.  It has only rewritten pages over and over with increasingly meaningful and impactful memories that rise and remain and melt me into moments of nostalgia that feel, on days like today, like the strong-armed hug of a father.