Dad

I"ll get back to the fun stuff next time. Right now, I'm a bit challenged. This is always, always a painful day. So I ask your indulgence as I get all this out of the way, and I won't bother you with it again.

Today is my father's birthday. He reaches 80 today; you get that far only once. He is a very private, protective man who simply does not know how to let people in. We are absolute opposites. Over the years, I have reached out to him in whatever way will work.

And nothing does. Because my father never knew how to be a father.

He was a uniquely brilliant man in his prime, who allowed life to intimidate him thoroughly. A Marine who reached the rank of master sergeant. He helped on the assembly line in a military unit as part of those who developed the engine for the Mustang jet, one of the prime jet fighters in the 50s. Was in the service for eight years. I remember as a 5-year-old boy seeing him come home in his uniform with all the stripes. He never kept it...I never saw it again after that day.

He was a milkman, believe it or not. Worked for twenty years on home routes, business routes, school routes, driving cattle cross-country for the dairy company. One day, he was offered the opportunity of a lifetime. A promotion as the deputy district manager. Tripling his salary. Changing his life in a positive, forward way.

He turned it down.

My mother did not understand it. She badgered him for weeks. Making fun, calling him names, as my mother was the dominant personality in the house. Oh, wait until I tell you her story in July on HER 80th birthday...Anyway, it was one night at the dinner table that apparently did it. She was complaining on the subject again, apparently. And he didn't have any courage or fortitude to hold it in any longer. He told her in a hurried voice:

"I didn't take the damned job because I can't READ."

My father couldn't read. And it explained so much about how I grew up. We'd be at the dinner table. He'd have the paper in front of him, turning pages, seemingly reading. Every once in a while, he'd look at me, point at a picture and say "I don't have my glasses, what's that say?" So I'd tell him and he'd launch on a tirade about something he didn't understand verbally, most on the Vietnam War...I remember that he didn't sign my college applications. I had to forge his signature because, in his words..."I didn't go and I turned out all right. We can't afford it." I always thought it was because he didn't like me. I thoroughly intimidated him, and I didn't even know it.

We went to one movie once. We went on a picnic once, and he threw a ball to my brother. No one in my family has ever seen me work as an actor. Forty years, since I was 15. That's embarrassing and very painful.

Lots of stories. A fistfight between us. So many times, it became hard to deal with, so when people would ask about my family, I would simply say that they were gone. So I didn't feel the need to pour it out, as I have here to you...But I'm almost done, friend, I promise.

Last time I saw my father was in December 1993. I brought presents that he couldn't open. I made dinner that he didn't like. I...well, anyway, it got to be around 9:00 PM, and it was obviously that he couldn't deal...and by the end of the evening, neither could I. So I say goodbye and drove out to the hotel I was staying at...yes, I stayed at a hotel in my hometown. Hopped in my car and drove back to Chicago, five hours. Got home around 2:30 AM.

I've tried every year. On his birthday or at the holidays. He just doesn't know how. I pour all this out, because the computer screen can be empathetic in that regard, at least to a point. But in the end, I think my upbringing, along with my job, taught me to create family in my life in the best way I know how. I don't dwell on it...it's just too exhausting. But every once in a while, we all need to unburden. You all, as my blogging family, can always simply click past this rambling and move on. I'll never know.

But my father knows. And I will call as I always do, leaving my number for the umpteenth time in an attempt to fill a void. And he will leave it unanswered, just as if I hadn't called at all.

THIS is why I refuse to live my life in fear. THIS is why I live my own life so hard, so openly, with all its warts and all its surprises. Because on the other side of all this lies my father, who has been frozen all his life.

It hurts. Always. But I live with it. We all have our ways. Happy birthday, Dad.

Thank you, friend, for listening. You may now return to your day...