I’m going to write a soppy post. It’s Father’s Day and I’m entitled. I don’t think it’s Father’s Day in Portugal, they have different dates. But later today I’m going to call my dad and tell him I love him, anyway.
I’ve talked, in the past, about how moving abroad robs you of the years you’d have had with your loved ones at home. It is not something undertaken lightly. Well, it might be undertaken lightly if you’re still within easy distance of home, but it’s not if you are going to cross the ocean and if going back costs thousands of dollars, and demands serious time away. (Yes, there are tons of things my family has given up because we try to go back – the four of us – every three years. My parents always help with the flights, but it never quite covers it, and then there’s other associated expenses. I can honestly say without those trips, we would probably be able to take a moderate vacation every year, more exciting than two days and a night in Denver, which is our “normal” vacation. [One year we went wild and crazy and spent four days and three nights in Denver. It was awesome. We still talk wishfully of affording that again, someday.])
The two people I had the hardest time leaving were my paternal grandmother and my dad. Understand what I’m saying here: it’s not that I don’t love my mom or don’t miss her. I do. It’s that my relationship with dad was less verbal – still is. Our phone calls take all of three minutes. He’s uncomfortable on the phone – and therefore more hurt by the distance.
Dad and I liked hiking together, and visiting monuments together, and sitting side by side on the sofa reading, and, sometimes, swapping books.
I’m as bad as he is about the “I love you” thing. I have been trained to say it to my husband, but it still sounds like it should be said drunk. So I used to buy dad warm socks and make him his after-dinner coffee just the way he liked.
He used to save all the new bills he got, from the bank, and give them to me. What I mean is, when he got a bill that looked newly minted, he’d save it and give it to me.
(My relationship with grandma was similar. She was a woman who did things and was awkward about conversation. Sometimes she just told you everything she’d done that day, because she had no idea what to talk about. Weird, since she told wonderful stories. But follow her around and listen to what she said as she gardened or looked after the animals, or whatever, and you’d get conversation and information. It was just the phone. Maybe because of course she didn’t grow up with a phone.)
I first became aware when dad was home it was the weekend. He worked halfway down the country and what was then a long and expensive train ride away. So he came home on Fridays and left midday Sunday, so he could be at work on Monday.
It was rough. I think it was rougher for him than for us. As a mother, I imagine it must have been particularly hard when I was a very sickly infant and young child.
Mostly I remember his coming home when I was well. And in my head it’s always spring or summer or fall. Dad would take me out of the house on Saturdays, so mom could clean the house without me in the way. We’d jump the wall at the back of grandma’s garden and go off for hikes in the woods. Often this entailed natural history lessons (what dad didn’t know about local plants and animals wasn’t worth knowing,) history lessons – there were ruins in those woods , and language lessons – he deciphered Latin inscriptions to me. We got tadpoles in buckets. He taught me to make a flute out of a reed. He lifted me up to see eggs in the nest, then told me about the birds. We took bread crumbs to give to ants, and watch them carry them back.
In fall we’d come home with my hat or his handkerchief full of blackberries, and in my mind (I’m sure it wasn’t always that well timed!) we came back to a freshly-scrubbed patio, a clean house, and tea all ready for us.
In summer, we’d walk out in the evening to the local pond, so I could see the fireflies.
In December, he’d take me by train to downtown Porto to see the lights being put up, and we stayed to see them lit, after night fell. At this time there were usually vendors selling stupid toys downtown. Hard to explain. Think the level of a MacDonald’s freebie. It was a ritual to carefully select and buy me one of those before we went home. Weirdly, the only one I remember was the plastic chicken that laid plastic eggs.
But there were times when I wasn’t well. Those are hazy, possibly because I was low on oxygen (grin.) Mom – poor mom – of course bore the brunt of those night when I couldn’t breathe, and had to fight for every breath. She’d stay awake and watch through the night and then the next day she’d work, because she actually made about twice what dad made at the time, and we needed her income. I remember those nights of fighting from breath to breath.
But if dad came home and I was in crisis, he’d stay awake all night, carrying me in his arms, singing to me. And if he got me to sleep at all, he’d put me in bed next to mom (we lived in a shotgun apartment cut out of grandma’s house. My brother slept in the little hallway space between kitchen and bedroom. Mom’s workshop was in the living room. There must have been all of 500 sq feet. There simply was no room for me. When I was well, I went next door and slept with my cousin, Natalia. When I wasn’t well, I slept with mom.) He would then take a blanket, roll himself in it, and sleep on the bare wood of the hallway floor. Sometimes I think he netted maybe five hours of sleep the whole weekend, then turn around and go back to work.
I was happy when he was transferred back to town, and could live with us. It’s a funny thing, because in Portugal the father is assumed to be the disciplinarian. So as the day for dad to come work in town approached all the old women in the village told me “Now you’re going to have to behave, or dad will make you.”
This amounted to insanity to me. It wasn’t even understandable. Dad was the person who let me get away with stuff, was always ready to plead my case, would sneak me forbidden treats (ice cream!)
He yelled at me three times in my life. I can honestly say it hurt him more than it hurt me, and even then I knew it.
When I got married and decided I wanted to be a writer, mom’s reaction was along the lines of “You’ll starve in the gutter.” And also “why don’t you take your degree and flush it?” Dad’s was “How can I help you?” He has over the years sent me research books, given me very brief (remember, three minute phone calls) pep talks, and sent me money – all in the name of keeping me writing.
One of the things that always amused me was strangers’ reactions to my dad. Dad was six one (he’s shrunken some) and built – for those who know them – like my younger son. Not exactly brick shithouse, but one of the better class of Roman statues. In Portugal when I was little, and even a young woman, this made him very large. Pugnacious little men who came to the window of the car to “have a word with” him about his driving, would turn meek and appeasing when dad got out of the car and stood to his full height.
The thing is, only humans were fooled – by his size, his stern look. Animals never were. Dad could wade into a dog or cat fight and pry them apart without getting hurt. He petted strays and ferals. Cats, dogs and rabbits came to him. I suspect they still do.
When I was in college he became “everyone’s dad.” If one of my friends got in a sticky situation, I was the one they called, and this was partly at least because of my dad. If a friend had gone to a party with some guy who was trying to pressure her for sex, or threatening to leave her out there with no transportation; if a friend had gone out with friends and found they were all doing drugs; if a friend got drunk and needed a place to stay till she got over it, so her parents wouldn’t kill her, she’d call me. I’d wake dad. He’d put on his clothes – at two, three, four in the morning – and drive miles with me to go pick up the lost sheep.
One of the compensations of growing – my younger son looks so much like my dad that sometimes it hurts a little. He has the same gestures, the same tastes. It’s funny to talk to dad about Marshall, because Marshall apparently hits the same developmental points at the same age dad did. (Dad is still not very good with the “I love you” so every time we go over if Marshall admires one of his shirts, or his robe, or his scarf, he gives it to Marshall. He also gives him brand new, freshly minted bills.) I have great hopes Marshall will grow up to be just like his grandfather… and like his dad.
You know that thing about women marrying men like their dad? Well, not exactly. Dan is not as massive, and he grew up in a different time and place. He’s not as much into natural science, not as much into history. He certainly doesn’t have a thing for Latin (that’s older son.)
But he has the same quiet strength my dad had. He will trade everything, just about, for time with his kids. He too used to take the kids to see the Christmas lights lit. For a while when they were little, he’d get them out of my hair on Saturdays so I could clean. (Mostly they went to Garden of the Gods and came back with pockets full of pebbles and rocks. Guy stuff.) As the kids got older, they bonded over movies, over computers. His idea of a really great time is when the family goes off to the museums (Bohemians, I tell you. We sure live it up.) And when the kids need him, there’s never any doubt: he drops everything to take them to the hospital or even – if it’s something they want to do, and I can’t take them – to take them to a movie, or to go to them to an art Gallery. He’s gone without stuff for himself to buy the kids movies or music they wanted. And, given half a chance, he takes young ones: the kids’ friends, fledgeling writers, under his wings and goes all paternal and protective.
I’m privileged and honor to have such good fathers in my life.
Happy Father’s day, everyone.
According To Hoyt 
Just so we get this out of the way:
Researchers have found that if your father didn’t have kids it is likely you won’t have kids either.
Except fatherhood, unlike motherhood, is a choice. Some men father children, others merely sire them — which proves, for my purposes at any rate, that evolution is bollocks in humans.
Um, if your father didn’t have kids, how is it you exist?
oy. RES is referring to the old joke “infertility is hereditary. If your parents had no children, neither will you.” Passes Karen a carp — feel free to throw it with extra force.
I think I’m going to have to develop the Strategic Air Rocket-propelled Carp. The SARC.
(runs)
Incommmmiiiinnngggg,,,,,
Hopefully more accurate than the old SNARK cruise missile.
When you deploy that you want to be sure you avoid the wide-dispersal pattern frequently associated with the SARC. I recommend attaching the Anti-Spew Missile load. Remember: to make your shots count, employ SARC-ASM.
Dang! Anti-Spew Module.
Tsk, don’t know where my head’s at today. Here I spent the whole afternoon planting flung fish in my garden to help grow the corn crop — I guess my head is still in the weeds.
I’ve heard that adopted folks will sometimes get the “But your parents couldn’t have children– aren’t you worried you’ll have trouble, too?”
More evidence that we’ve not yet reached “Peak Stupid”….
I figure folks just sometimes talk before their sense catches up.
Just follow Bill Engval’s advice and always be prepared to say, “Here’s your sign,”
There is a theory floating around about production of scarce resources and its relation to petroleum production called “Peak Oil”. Its that in the near future we will see production of oil reach a peak and become more scarce. There is a counter-argument that contests the conclusion.
I’m working on a theory of “Peak Stupidity” … and its the counterargument that I fear the most …
As Albert Einstein is alleged (probably incorrectly) to have said, there are only two infinite things: the universe, and human stupidity… and he wasn’t sure about the universe.
Brings new meaning to “We are the world.”
( Explaining the joke: one of the theories against peak oil is that it’s not actually dino juice, it’s something that’s made far deeper in the earth.)
If we could weaponize stupid we could blow up the Milky Way.
3 minute phone calls. Boy I know that one well. Phone calls with my father last 3 minutes only if I manage to stretch them out…
Oh, yeah, same here.
While I can’t say for sure, phone calls are probably one of the things my dad hates most about the fact that mom died before him. He always hated talking on the phone (though he would talk quite a bit when NOT on the phone), and now, his hearing is so bad, even with hearing aids, that talking on the phone is awful for him.
OK young Portagee, you made me cry dammit.
Happy Father’s day– I am not sniffling– I have allergies.
My goodness, it got dusty in here.
Sarah & Crew
Eleven years ago my wife called her father on Father’s day (and his birthday) specifically to talk to him. It surprised him, as normally when she called he just handed the phone to his wife and let them talk. He was reticent about expressing his feelings, as most men his generation is.
They talked, Father and Daughter, for about half an hour. And she let him know how special he was to her.
The next day he was dead. He fainted and collapsed in his garage workroom, and landed in such a way that his airway was constricted, cutting oxygen to his brain. They had him on machines for three day that kept his heart beating, but there was no brain activity. So finally the family made the decision to let him go.
I am so pleased that she had that last chance – and took it! – to tell her father how much she loved him. And to hear from him that he loved her as well.
My Dad’s been gone for a while but I remember that we were driving out of town and on the way back Dad decided to make a detour to visit his Mom. We had a nice visit and a very short time later Grandma Howard died.
Happy father’s day to dad– the most quiet, sly comedian ever. (No change in expression or anything– just a minute after he says something, you blink and realize you were got.)
Dad’s been gone 23 years now, and I still miss him. There are so many things I want to talk to him about. One of the very few down-sides to my military career was that I spent so much time overseas, and couldn’t visit as often as I’d liked. I hope I’ve been, and will continue to be, the type of father my dad was to me.
Your dad seems like a pretty cool guy, Sarah. Definitely someone you want watching your back.
Your dad sounds like my dad – when he’d get home from work, he’d take me outside to play to get my out of my mom’s hair. Those were some of the best afternoons, ever!
Thank you for sharing memories – they’re beyond price.
Thank you for that very sweet tribute.
My father told me wistfully once that he wishes he’d had a father like Richard Feynman’s, who helped develop his curiosity about the world. I told him, “I had a father like that.” I think it was the happiest I ever made him.
He’s been gone now for 18 years and I miss him every day.
That’s about the best tribute you can pay!
Wish I’d had that. It would have changed my life a lot, I think, to have been allowed a relationship with my father…even if only on weekends. But I’m glad for those, like you and my wife, who did have it. And in the increasingly-unlikely event that we manage to have kids of our own, I’ll be moving heaven and earth to make sure they do.
Wonderful post Sarah. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I wish I could meet your dad one day. Call him today and maybe you guys can talk a full 5 minutes. 🙂
If he ever does talk to me for five minutes, I’ll worry. For his birthday I got in “Happy birthday” and “I hope everything is all right.” and that was it, pretty much. OTOH last time I visited we took long walks by the ocean and talked books and language and history. Hopefully a miracle occurs and I can get there next year, and he’s still well enough to go for walks with me.
Hugs, Alan, I know this father’s day has got to be tough. And happy father’s day. You’re one of the best dads I know which is why you have awesome kids.
Thanks Sarah, it is tough, but the family worked to make it a nice one. And it was. While I’m sure you’d like to be able to have longer phone calls, those walks and talks sound a lot more meaningful than chit chat about the weather and what the neighbors have done in their backyard.
My dad was the best nature-walk guide evah! He was a research biologist, with a degree in zoology, and I don’t think there was anything regarding science, and the natural world that he didn’t know. (He was bad at teaching us to tell time and to drive a car, but that was about it.) I got very good grades in science, without being particularly interested in it, just from being around Dad. He was also my best alpha-reader, ever. When I call my mother once a week – Fridays at 7, sometimes she doesn’t pick up the phone right away, and I hear him on the answering machine. That’s about the only recording we have of him. Sigh. He’s been gone two years, now.
Hugs.
Thanks. (sniffle)
My dad has been gone for eleven years now. We lost him to lymphoma, he had medically retired a Captain from a municipal fire department in California and we seem to lose firemen to such too often.
In many ways, I’m quite different from him. I know I baffled him my whole life in some ways. But the thing about him I always admired was that he never let family or friends down. He always showed up. The day of my father’s service, his old battalion chief saw the obituary in the paper in the morning, an hour before. That retired battalion chief, who hadn’t seen him in several decades, showed up and asked me to speak. He spoke of the promotion board interview when my dad stood before them for promotion to Captain. He said that my father promised not to let him down.
I miss him every day.
Hugs.
Thanks. I’ll need more than one today.
I thoroughly baffled both my parents. My father in particular, since he has always been practical and down-to-earth. I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone, but I don’t really know how I’ll feel otherwise. Probably guilty that I didn’t live up to his standards (and no, not because he says anything about it, simply because I can see it).
We don’t do the father’s day thing in England. Actually I’m not sure we do the Mother’s day thing – there’s “Mothering Sunday” aka the fourth Sunday in lent – but that’s about it in my family.
Anyway one week ago my father flew down to stay and we did a certain amount of father/son bonding things such as discussing PG Wodehouse. Oh and he spent all of 3 minutes in the mediterranean.
He has, in recent years, become positively gossipy (well compared to his previously rocklike attitude anyway). I now know significantly more about what he did in the war (see Bletchley Park) and some other stuff later.
However it seems to me that fathers (or at least fathers of a certain era) are not good at this whole verbal communication thing with their offspring. [Apparently they can communicate with bosses, would-be wives, etc just fine]
Happy father’s day to Dan!
Happy father’s day to all the Dads out there. I know I’m grateful for mine.
I sort of know what you mean by moving away from family, after I moved I sold my parents ten acres and they built a house next to mine. They are here about half the time, and one cousin followed me, other than that my only remaining grandparent and one uncle and his kids come to visit once or twice a year (his wife used to come to, but we didn’t ever get along and last time she was here I finally told her it was my house, either shutup or find a different place to stay, and she hasn’t been back) and one cousin and her husband came to visit last year. The only time I have seen the rest of my family is when I went home to go to my uncle’s funeral a couple years ago. Thing is the family that visits or followed me is the only family I was really close to anyways, so it doesn’t bother me much.
I spent the morning with my dad, before he had to head back to the coast, much like your dad when you were younger he works four days over there, then drives eight hours over here, spends three days, and heads back.
My Father LOATHED Father’s Day (my Mother had no time for Mother’s Day either). I didn’t send him gifts or cards on That Day, on pain of a masterful rant on the subject of greeting card companies. But I could drop in on him any day and talk history or politics. We’d managed to make friends when I was in high school, which carried us through times when I made choices he couldn’t understand. Fortunately he loved My Lady for the same reasons I did; her quick wits and her creativity. He taught her to watch (American) Football, and I enjoyed watching them (I don’t get watching sports, myself. Playing I understand, but not watching). When she had her breakdown , and I managed to stick through it, he told me flat out that he wasn’t sure he could have, and he admired me for it. That helped a lot. He taught me to love Kipling, Heinlein, Hammett, and Chandler. I got him to read, and love, Lois McMaster Bujold. I gave him a Buck Folding Hunting Knife while I was still in high school, and he treasured it. Later I found him copies of books he’d loved as a boy, which he wouldn’t buy for himself. In the last year of his life, with Mother gone, we spend many afternoons together, arguing politics. Just before he died he told me that I reminded him of his Father. I can think of no greater compliment, and will try to live up to it. He went without losing his edge, for which I than whatever powers there may be. He had had two heart bypass operations (14 years apart, I think) and had needed a third for more than a decade, but didn’t want to be cracked open like a clam again. He had been telling me that he didn’t expect to live out the decade for about 15 years. At first my reaction had been a silent “You can’t leave yet, I’m not done with you!”, but I came to accept that he was frustrated by the weaknesses of his body and wanted to move on.
The day before she passed, Mother told me she had dreamed that one of their English Bulldogs had come to see her. All my life, when Mother wanted to go somewhere, she would wait for Father to finish what he was doing, but if she decided he was spinning his wheels she would come and get him. I think that, in the end, after slightly more than two years after her passing, she decided that he was wasting time, and she and the dogs came and got him.
Really dusty in here.
My relationship to my father can best be summed up as “A paycheck, and the occasional moment of being told how I’d disappointed him (again)”. Other than that, I really didn’t have much to do with him — or him with me.
That, plus a mother who flat-out had no clue how to deal with a five-year-old with possible PTSD; and an older brother who felt a compelling need to run my life (and who is still trying four decades later) — well, let’s just say: I envy people who parents abused them; at least when *they* tell their tales, people listen. No one gives a flying fuck about kids who parents Just Didn’t Care.
I spent my weekend at an auto race, and carefully ignored the people I share some quantity of DNA with — after all, I learned from the best.