Six Hours with Dad
It was some years ago, as Cindy and I were preparing for a move, that I found an old plastic tub full of family photos. We were in the process of purging, downsizing, and I remember sorting almost all of the photos into two piles and packing and mailing them off to my two brothers in Wisconsin. I remember Cindy asking why I was doing that, and I’m sure when my brothers got these packages, without any real explanation, they were confused as well. Perhaps they thought that there was something wrong with me and that this was a dying man’s distribution of memories. I’d like to say I knew why I felt the need to purge myself of these family memories, but at this point in my life I can’t honestly come up with a viable explanation. I was angry, but it was not targeted to any one person, just a generalized anger. I was angry at my family, and at the world. My anger was a shotgun blast with a pattern that would cover a large area, and might pepper beyond the actual target when my aim was less than perfect. I was sad, I was probably depressed.
I recently found a couple black and white photos of my father on my computer, and I decided to try a pencil sketch portrait of the man.
I had a love-hate relationship with my father. He was distant, introverted, anti-social, prone to anger and criticism. He probably suffered some anxiety and depression, though in those days, especially for men, they did not put a real name to it. Sounds a lot like who I was when I was sorting those pictures.
It took about six hours to finish this sketch, and when I was done the realization came to me that this was the first six hours I probably spent with him in my life. Did I think he was a good father? For many years no. Did I think I was a good man? For many years no. Staring at him those hours while I sketched him gave me plenty of time to think.
Oh sure, we spent time together, there were road trips up North, time on an aluminum boat fishing for pike on the Flambeau Flowage, up at cousin Dan’s cabin in Northern Wisconsin, or full days where I worked alongside him in his little shop in South Milwaukee. But the drive time was quiet, I was not much of a talker nor was he; the boat time was drowned out by the roar of an old Evinrude engine vibrating through the aluminum hull; the work time was often through the tinted glass of a lowered welding hood. This was six hours I spent face to face with him.
For some people, when they pass, we tend to only remember the good. To focus on their flaws, their mistakes or imperfections, seems disrespectful. We elevate them to a watered down version of sainthood. For some I think we sometimes do the opposite, we remember only the failings, the bad or hurtful; and that tends to crowd out any good memories. For Dad, I did the latter.
As I was sketching this image, I could see so much of myself in him, to some degree it was like looking in a mirror. I could see it in the line of his mouth, pinched tight but looking stalled on the cusp of speech. In his eyes that looked to be searching for something just out of range and marginally worthy of his disdain. In his general demeanor, stiff and lacking in joy. If I looked back at old pictures of myself, I would probably have seen the same. Was I being fair to him? Would people look back on my life with the same judgment I seemed to have for him?
If you read my other posts in this silly blog, you would see that my life has changed, for a number of reasons. I’ve re-evaluated my priorities, the things I value in life. One thing I want to do is live a life of kindness, and I think kindness requires a broader sense of understanding. Not “acceptance.” To me acceptance has the connotation of compromise. “I’ll lower my expectations so I can fit you into my viewpoint.” No, understanding to me means acknowledging that everyone has a “story,” and that story has had a role in orchestrating, in steering their life. It is neither good nor bad, it just is. But without knowing it, you can make unfortunate judgments about what you see in front of you at the moment. You blame the tree for falling on your house when it was the storm that loosened the soil and the wind that blew it down. I’m not saying people have no responsibility for their decisions, for their own destiny, Of course they do. But it is not always as simple as what we see in front of us.
So don’t I owe the man a little understanding? His story has never been fully revealed, though the little we know of it seems to indicate a less than charmed life. His parents, my grandparents, seemed cold and rigid. That old painting “American Gothic” comes to mind when I think of them, stern, stiff, unsmiling country folk struggling to survive in an unfriendly world. Stories of him being sent out of town to live with his brother at a young age. Nobody really knows, but the little we do does not sound particularly nurturing.
So while I was sketching this I started to remember some of the good in him, and there was some good.
He instilled in me a love of fishing and the outdoors, I loved to go to Northern Wisconsin fishing with him. He taught me how to drive a 4 speed manual transmission on old dirt logging roads when I was 14, and because of him I still have a soft spot in my heart for Ford trucks. As he plucked on his old 4 string banjo, I learned to enjoy good banjo music, can still recite the lyrics to “The wreck of the old 97,” and have learned to finger pick (albeit poorly) a six string guitar. He taught me how to run an engine lathe, drill press, and milling machine. I can figure the tooth pitch and diameter of 20 degree stub tooth gear with only a tape measure. He taught me about cranes, helped me conquer my fear of heights (If telling me “climb up the damned ladder” is really “helping”), I think I got my work ethic because I did not want to disappoint him, and I ended up in a good career because I followed in his footsteps. As kids, we lived in a nice house, there was always a reliable car in the driveway, and though I’m sure at times money was tight we never really wanted for anything. He accepted my grandmother on my mom’s side into our house when she needed to be taken care of (a sacrifice worthy of sainthood), and he put some of our neighbors on his payroll when they were laid off or unemployed. How easy it was to forget all these things.
There is an old picture on my guest bedroom wall that I recovered many years ago from this same plastic tub of photos I distributed. It was a photo of him as a young child, standing outside in the cold, dressed in a winter coat, and crying as the snow fell around him. The photo was cracked and broken and pasted to an old paper grocery bag. I originally thought of having it restored, but I like the brokenness of it and framed it as it is. A reminder that there is some brokenness in all of us.
Looking back, I can’t for the life of me remember a real conversation I ever had with him. Now, long after his passing I had the chance as I was sketching this likeness. It was a one-sided conversation. I wish I had been strong enough to have had that conversation with him forty years ago. It might have done us both a world of good. Then again it might not have. We’ll never know.
A good story I guess is supposed to tie everything together in the end, to a happy or at least satisfying ending. But these strings were cut too short to make a good knot. In my retirement memo to my colleagues at work I told about my history of working for my dad in his small shop and in the same industry that I retired from. In my note I said that “I hoped he’d be proud” of what I accomplished in my career.
Though I did a hell of a good job of hiding it, I hope he knew that I was proud of him too.
