My Father, My Son and Me

A series of events has happened in my family, that has made me remember certain things about my upbringing, and my father in particular.
My wife is taking classes for a computer certification, and my youngest kids are out of school during one of those weeks. Our youngest daughter, Sarah, is quite passionate about gymnastics, and she is going to gymnastics camp that week. My son Joe has been taking the gymnastics classes as well, but has lost interest, and will only attend three more classes, and isn't thrilled about the prospect of going to gymnastics camp.

The only thing Joe seems to be passionate about is snow skiing. That said, I came up with the idea of taking him to Colorado for a quick three day ski trip, which, at first was unacceptable to my wife. I can't blame her, after all, I did take him to New York the summer before last to see a Yankees game in the old Yankee Stadium before they tore it down. Tickets were hard to get, and I found an internet deal, but I had to buy two tickets. Long story short, it was a nice little father/son trip to the Big Apple. Just the boys, and it was great.

When the idea of a quick ski trip came up, it was an unpopular idea to say the least. My wife enjoys skiing, and Sarah seems to, but she's hardly passionate about it. Joe, on the other hand, will skip lunch to keep skiing, and cries when the lifts close. That's a passion for skiing! Joe has only skied in North Carolina, and Colorado would be a great experience for him. He has no idea of what its like to ski for over a half hour without getting back on a lift.

Having already set a precedent for father/son trips, and no idea of what to do with Joe for the week he's out of school, my wife relented, and gave me permission to take Joe to Colorado. I would love to take the entire family, but it just won't work out this time. Thinking of what a great time we're going to have, it brought back memories of my own father, and the good and bad times we shared.

My father passed away in 1996, and I thought I knew him fairly well, but it seems like the older I get, the better I understand and know him. He was a small town doctor, a general practitioner, and I was always known as the doctor's kid. He made a good living back in the 60's & 70's, and I never wanted for anything, but I couldn't support my family today on what he made. We had a swimming pool, lived in a nice neighborhood, and even had an airplane that dad would fly us around in, for family vacations and other short trips. Like most boys, I idolized my dad until I was about 7 or 8 years old, then everything changed. Even though my father never laid a hand on me, he was a strict disciplinarian, an ex-Marine Corps task master with a quick temper, and I feared him very much. I had a daily list of chores that had to be done to perfection. He yelled and intimidated me to tears. Despite that, he always told me he loved me every day. I never believed him. How could he love me and treat me so badly? More often than not, I disappointed him, and he would yell at me like a drill instructor, and I spent many nights crying myself to sleep. For years, I hated seeing him come home at night, and wished he would just stay away.

My father was old school for sure, and now I'm glad he was. He taught me how to be a man, how to be tough, and the importance of having a good work ethic, and to respect your elders, among other things. He wasn't my friend, he was my teacher, a teacher of life. While I'm not as harsh on my kids, I try to teach them some of the values he taught me.

One of the things my dad always did, was take me on a trip with him every year, just me and him. Sometimes, a few of his friends, but only the boys. Since my dad was a big time hunter, all the trips were hunting trips. He gave me a 20 gauge shotgun that was my grandfathers on Thanksgiving Day in 1969 or 1970, I can't remember the exact year, but it was a big deal. He was very serious about it, and it was time for the next generation to hunt with it. Our first trip was local, and we were hunting for rabbits. I saw one first, fired the shotgun, and actually hit the rabbit on the first shot. I don't remember the gun knocking me back or anything, just the thrill of hitting my target the first time. Problem was, I didn't kill it. It was screaming in some briar bushes, and my dad told me I had to finish him off. I raised the gun, but my dad said, "You can't shoot it, you'll put too much buckshot in it and we won't be able to eat it. You have to crawl in there and twist it's head!" Watching the rabbit twitching his legs and screaming in pain was too much for me, and I began to cry, and told him I couldn't do it. "Get in there and twist his head, you big sissy!" "Quit being a candy ass!" Those were a couple of the many things he was yelling at the time. Needless to say, I knew what had to be done, so I crawled in there and twisted the rabbit's head until it snapped. I was sobbing as I handed the dead rabbit to my dad, and he said, "For Christ's sake, quit acting like a little girl!" We then went home, and he showed me how to skin it and clean it. Being a doctor, he was very good with a knife, and I was impressed with his skills. He gave the rabbit parts to my mother, and she cooked it right up, and I must admit it was very good. While we were eating, my dad explained to me why hunting was important to control the wildlife population, and that you should eat everything you kill.

Later on, I became a fan of bird hunting, and every fall, my dad would take me to South Dakota for opening day of pheasant season. Those were great trips. I got to hang out with dad and his buddies, and I earned respect from all of them, because I was a pretty good shot, and rarely missed. When I was 14, I even went to a bar, and my dad let me have my first beer. Those father/son trips were the best, and for those few days he treated me like a friend, scolding me only if I missed a shot, or didn't clean enough birds. Once we got back home, he turned back into the asshole that I knew so well.

Once my dad retired and moved to Eufaula, Alabama, I would visit him and we'd go fishing almost every day. We'd have great conversations, and sometimes wouldn't speak a word. It didn't matter, I was spending time with him. Problem was, I had about a 2 day time limit with him, before he'd start his bitching and yelling about what it was that I wasn't doing right at the time. I'd just get in my car and leave, then call when I got back home, and he always acted like nothing happened. My dad never held a grudge. He'd get pissed, then get over it. I'd stay pissed for a few days, but eventually I'd get over it too.

My father was a very smart man, and I always sought out his advice, no matter what it was. I called him once a week, maybe more, if I needed his opinion on something, which he never hesitated to give out.
We grew to be friends, and once I was in my 30's, and finally doing well with my career, he said he was proud to have my as his son. He said he had his doubts at times, and that was why he was so hard on me growing up. Life isn't easy or fair, and he was only preparing me for the journey. I loved the man I used to hate so much, but I fully understood why he was the way he was. It just took me a long time to figure it out.

The last time I saw my father, he was in a cardiac intensive care unit, recovering from a heart bypass operation. He was his usual self, flirting with the nurses, and in a great mood considering what his body just went through. The doctors said everything looked great, and he had many years left. For some reason, I had a feeling that I'd never see him again. When I had to leave, I kissed him on the lips, something I hadn't done since I was a little boy. He smiled and said, "I love you and I'm proud of you, son. Now get your ass back to work!" I walked out of the room, then turned around to look at him one last time. He winked, and gave me a thumbs up. Maybe I was wrong, and he'd live another 20 years or so.

Sadly, that wasn't the case. My premonition was correct. A couple of weeks after he got out of the hospital, my dad died of a massive stroke. He couldn't take it easy, and was busy doing yard work on a hot summer day. My mother told me he came into the house, sat in his chair, and died quickly and painlessly, the way he always wanted to go. It was June 9, 1996, my daughter Taylor's 2nd birthday. I actually spoke to him that morning, and was planning on coming down for a visit in a couple of weeks. He seemed so full of energy on the phone. The man I hated, the man who raised me and taught me so much, the man who I grew to love and become friends with was gone forever. It's hard to imagine never seeing him again, even to this day. I have dreams about him yelling at me, and I suppose that's my subconscious telling me to man up when I'm slacking a bit. Who knows? I miss him very much.

My son Joe will never know his grandfather. At least he has one on his mother's side. Both of my grandfather's were dead before I was born, and I wish I could've experienced that. I know my dad lives on in my son, and I plan on having several father/son trips with him like my dad did with me, if my wife ok's it anyway. While they probably won't revolve around hunting and fishing, I do plan on spending time with him, and telling him stories of how my father raised me. Obviously, I won't use the same approach as my dad did, but I want to teach him the things he'll need to know in order to be a productive and respected member of society. Make sure he understands the importance of having a good work ethic, to respect his elders, and take pride in whatever he chooses to do for a career. To be responsible and to be a man, not a whiner or complainer.

We started with a trip to New York City, and a Yankees game. Next, a ski trip. I have no idea what will be next. Joe likes to fish, so maybe fishing. Maybe even hunting, after all, I do have a 20 gauge shotgun to pass down to him. I'll pass along what my father taught me, but with a different way of teaching it. That goes for my daughters as well. I want to spend alone time with them too. With my oldest, it's shopping. With my youngest, I haven't figured it out yet, but I can promise "undivided alone attention time" with all of them. I want them to know me, and I want to know them, and have the chance to live long enough to tell them that I'm proud of the way they turned out. I hope they spend time alone with their mother too. I think it's important to get to know your parents, individually as well as together. I can't speak for all parents, but my parents were one way when they were together, and totally different when I was alone with them separately. Being a parent is the hardest job you can have, but the most rewarding in the end. I can only hope that my children respect and love me as much as I did my dad. We will have some bumps in the road, for sure, but as long as they turn out to be adults that I'm proud of, It'll all be worth it.