Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either. My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist. Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.
That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times. Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad. An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home. The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.
Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle. After that, was pure bliss. While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was. I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome. The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around. He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke. The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror. It was like walking on glass. You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor. After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters. However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear. I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions. Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.
Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long. Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since. I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies. Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today? My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.
It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him. I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat. We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories. Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood. One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place. Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence. He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.
The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999. I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died. I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow. He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling. I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family. His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence. My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway. Three days later, my dad was dead.
I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently. Not much, I'm sure. He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day. He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life. My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair. Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else. It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair. I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.
The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies. It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew. Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad. No need for words, just enjoying each other's company. Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.
That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times. Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad. An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home. The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.
Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle. After that, was pure bliss. While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was. I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome. The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around. He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke. The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror. It was like walking on glass. You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor. After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters. However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear. I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions. Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.
Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long. Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since. I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies. Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today? My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.
It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him. I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat. We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories. Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood. One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place. Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence. He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.
The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999. I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died. I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow. He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling. I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family. His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence. My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway. Three days later, my dad was dead.
I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently. Not much, I'm sure. He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day. He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life. My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair. Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else. It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair. I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.
The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies. It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew. Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad. No need for words, just enjoying each other's company. Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.
My father could be a real bastard, sometimes. The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad... The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday. If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about. The weather? Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life? I don't know. I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch.
