My DAD (he did not enjoy being called “Father”) was a man of quiet intellect, possessed of an unassuming and considerate nature. Born in 1947, in St. Paul, Minnesota, the only son of working class parents, my dad endured a feudal relationship with his own father, while enjoying the status of “Mama’s Boy.” By all accounts, he seemed to have permanently altered his life’s trajectory soon after finishing high school, by marrying my mother. A family necessitated full-time employment and so, after completing one semester at the University of Minnesota (he wanted to work in forestry), he joined the workforce as a warehouse/dock-worker, where he remained until being laid off during the economic down-turn of 1982.
When I was born in 1976, nine years into my parents’ marriage, I think that my dad was struggling to reconcile his aspirations and the reality of his existence; this, understandably, lead to his depression. In retrospect, I view his suicidal tendencies and apathy as a function of disappointment with the progression of his life. He faced a lot of pressure to keep our family ‘going,’ and I am willing to wager that he often regurgitated many derogatory comments made by his own father earlier in his life. He persevered through the emotional stress.
Although he was never fully free from the chains of alcohol until the day he died, he re-grouped magnificently after divorcing my mother and gaining custody of me. And so it was…a 35-year-old, unemployed, divorced union dock-worker single-handedly raised a girl from the age of six. I think it was a monumental achievement, and do not believe he could have done a better job.
Instead of resigning us to living indefinitely on government cheese and rental subsidies (which we did receive for some time), he enrolled in a vocational school, where he studied manual machining methods for two years. During this time we were money-poor, but he always made sure that I didn’t ‘feel’ it. We spent uncountable weekends camping in remote areas of northern Minnesota, visiting his friend Mike’s hobby farm, and just conversing. My dad spoke to me as though I was far older than eight, and that suited me fine; my favorite topic was astronomy.
Upon completion of his degree, he gained employment in the last company he would ever work for. He enjoyed his work, but one could take the impression that he was just shy of the mark he was aiming for. I caught a glimpse of what that target might have been one evening, during an involved conversation, in which he mentioned that he would have loved to set up a small-engine repair shop somewhere along the northern Minnesota arrowhead. I remember him saying, “…but it’s too late to do that now.”
My dad was not perfect, but, to expect perfection out of someone just because they are a parent is illogical. To me, my dad was a good man that made a great go of his life.
When I want to pay tribute to my dad, I do not drive to the cemetery to look at his headstone; rather, I crack open a cold beer (Sam Adams NOT Coors – sorry), put on some old Dylan (Highway 61 Revisited) and reminisce – just the good times, of course. I think he would have liked that.
