My Dad

My father was always a hard nut to crack. He definitely had an effect on my life, a profound one, but not always in a positive way. Oftentimes, it seems, he’s been more of a cautionary tale to me than anything else as I have grown older, made decisions, and have taken on more responsibilities. I’m certain he looks down on me with disappointment at many of the decisions I have made, because I have made more poor ones than good ones. But I did learn enough from him about how not to raise children to avoid most of the devastating mistakes he made with me. And I can proudly point out the results of “breaking the chain” with Exhibit A and Exhibit B, better known as my son and my daughter.




As I look back, I know that he loved me and my younger brothers too, but while growing up, I never believed that for a minute. The feeling when he was around was one of caution, fear, embarrassment, and self-doubt. Looking back, I realize now that he was doing the best that he could do with the baggage that he carried daily, all his life. I’m certain that it was a cumbersome load. It was an unstable and terrifying load of misery untold and some known. Unable or unwilling to dispose of it anywhere, its contents seeped out many times, perhaps by mistake, perhaps because he became weary of its girth, often because it was left unchecked as he once again became engulfed in a sea of vodka and scotch.






I’m a true believer that we all have our addictions. Many of us just don’t own up to them or perhaps have never had to face those demons that would otherwise destroy our lives. Not so, my father. He was an alcoholic, from a long line of well-known alcoholics: some more public than others. He was also the third and final child of a wealthy and very prominent family in my hometown. And to top it all off he had been told most of his life (as I would later learn) that he was unwanted, a mistake, a burden to his parents who preferred to gallivant around the world and pursue their active social lives. They had no desire to be pulled away from reveling in their prominence and wealth to care for this “son” they never planned for.






My father passed away 11 years ago, a victim of a particularly withering and fast-moving cancer. Three months was all it took and yet it was a glorious 3 months in many ways. You see, my father died a hero in my eyes. He was my strength and my shield. He had unexpectedly (to me) walked with me through one of my darkest hours. He showed me how to walk through the blazing fire and to come out the other side, perhaps not at full-strength, but to come through nonetheless and to live. He taught me by example about abiding faith, inner strength, forgiveness, and yes, love. Even love.






In the end, I am a better person for having known my father, my dad.