50-something Moms Blog

Father's Day is not for Everyone

Dad stretched to call himself 5 ft. 8 in. A Golden Gloves Bantam Weight boxing champion, Dad was wiry, athletic and smart---long torso, short legs and low-slung ass---I inherited all three. His white blond hair and crystal clear blue eyes completed the image of bon vivant. He dropped out of high school and joined the Navy but was discharged after a diagnosis of rheumatic fever. With carpentry skills learned from his father, he expanded his knowledge to brick masonry and other construction expertise---enough to build whatever needed building. Gorgeous limestone homes and tall office buildings were built with my Dad’s hands and overseen by his intellect and expertise. But to say he blew a successful career and a brilliant mind on wine, women and song would be a generous interpretation of Dad’s career path—more like booze, broads and bawdy ballads.

On of my earliest memories of Dad was also one of the only houses where I actually remember him living with us. He purchased our first black and white TV for that house and hooked it up in the small living room. It almost seemed like we were a ‘normal’ family---whatever that means---at least as seen on TV. In that same house, I cowered in the corner as Mom and Dad had a violent fight over whether to buy me new shoes. I had been chosen as crown bearer in the Fall Festival Parade. I needed a princess dress and a new pair of shoes. Dad, coming home from work drunk, didn’t grasp the importance of this occasion, so Mom threw a pan of dishwater on him and the fight was on. I caught the combs from Mom’s thick chestnut hair when they flew my direction as he whipped her around the room. Memory fails about the outcome of the fight except I rode on the float in a new dress and shoes. The episode was one of dozens of times Dad moved out then moved back in---always a revolving door.

I longed for Dad in ways I couldn’t name. Fragments of memory about him poke through my psyche like ragged edge shards poking through soil at an archeological dig. 

Polarization of a Nation

The accompanying photo perfectly predicts the future of our nation if we do not figure out how to talk with people different from ourselves. We have polarized our nation politically, religiously, culturally and economically. This polarization has created a dangerous atmosphere and the result could be as disastrous as the encounter between this car and the vacant shack.

How do we move beyond this unfortunate circumstance? First, we listen. Listen to people who think differently than you do. Second, we give those people space. Space to think and believe differently without be judged. Third, we do our best to reach compromise. The very foundations of democracy rest on compromise.

Don't Do That!

If there was an academy award for parenting stamina, I would be an automatic winner for having reared my first born son. Please note, I did not say an award for the best parenting or the best result, just for the willingness, strength, fortitude and tenacity to stick to the assigned task. When he was two, I held him tightly after the latest tantrum and said, “You are the strongest little boy I have ever known. Fortunately, God gave you to me and I’m stronger.” That dueling of wills tested both of us. After six years, half-million dollars (I’m not exaggerating), and his documented genius IQ (I’m still not exaggerating), he graduated from high school at the age of twenty-one. Persistence wins---at least, if the goal was just to get him through high school.

In contrast to my stamina and willingness, I was no match for what this boy could think of doing that I never thought to warn him against. For example, I thought I was on top of things because I planned well ahead of time when we built our first swimming pool. He was three and half; I sat him down and explained that it would take two days to fill the pool and we would not go in until it was completely filled. Then he could be the first person in the pool! The day we started filling it, all doors of the house were locked. He sneaked out the locked bedroom window and into the pool before noon.

What is heaven?

The summer my son, Sims, was summiting Mt. Kenya, I had a profound dream. My friend, Rachel, had called that day to say another friend, our dear Thelma, had had several strokes. I must have gone to bed thinking about Thelma and about parenting a man-child who was hanging from mountains in Africa. The room in the dream appeared to be a doctor’s clinic. I knew, however, that it was Heaven. I, very much still alive, was demanding to know what Thelma would be doing in heaven when she got there. The white-coated “official” said, “Don’t you understand? Heaven is where we all do what we’re best at. Thelma, of course, will be teaching Sunday School.” My heart rested easy then about Thelma. After all, when she later died her actual obituary began, “Sunday School teacher for thirty-seven years.” The dream continued though.