TheBanyanTree: Father Stories

[Monique Colver]

I suppose now that Father's Day is over I can tell my father story.

My father never cared, nor understood, what I'm doing with my life. That
wasn't his concern. His concern was that I was okay, and that my vehicle
was running.

He couldn't, or didn't bother, to remember the name of my husband, second
or third. It's not as if he couldn't, it just wasn't relevant to him. I
wasn't there taking care of him, so what business was it of his who I was
married to?

He didn't understand how I earn a living, or why people would pay me, or
that I could write a coherent sentence.

None of this was recent -- at my stepmother's father's funeral 25 years ago
my sister and I laughed because no matter what we said, unless it was about
him, Dad would just ignore it and start off again on a subject of his
choosing. Really, what else could we do?

I felt bad for him when his oldest son died. The son, Steve, was 24, I was
18, and though I thought, secretly, "good riddance," my only experience
with Steve being of a pedophile who liked to sneak up on me, I attended the
funeral with a sad face, and told my Dad I was sorry for his loss. It was
his loss, after all, he didn't know how Steve tortured me. Or maybe he did,
and that's why Steve was moved back to live with his mother, and I never
saw him again for years. Once or twice, I remember, after Steve was sent
back to his mother, he would come by the house, a tall rangy boy who still
scared me just by being close by, and my father would take him out to the
back porch to talk, just the two of them. Then he'd give him money, and
send him on his way.

But other than Steve and I, my father's other children turned out okay. My
youngest brother, Jeff, his youngest, married a woman with an almost
obsessive family ... feeling, and she could never understand my antipathy.
I mean, sure, I loved my dad, but it's not as if he liked me all that much.

My older sister took care of dad after his cancer surgery, and until he
died last year, even though he drove her crazy with his constant demands
and expectations that she should come running whenever he had a request.
Well, someone had to, he figured, and he couldn't ask his sons -- they were
busy boys with important jobs.

My other brother was a good, if mostly away, son. He'd call dad from
various airports when he was between flights, and whenever I talked to dad,
he'd say, "I never hear from Mike, he's always away on business."

What dad probably didn't know was that Mike, as easygoing as he seemed, was
really angry with our dad because of the way dad ignored Mike's daughters.
When he was in a nursing home recovering from something or other Mike
visited, with his daughter, a grown up college student. A lovely girl. Dad
didn't acknowledge her. Heather was invisible. Every Christmas Mike wanted
dad at his home for the opening of the presents, perhaps in an effort to
reclaim some sort of a relationship. Dad would go, grudgingly, until the
last few years, and would later complain about his grandkids taking up
space and sitting in the comfortable chairs.

And he always complained to me about having to go. What good was it to him?
He didn't care to see his grandkids opening presents.

It wasn't until Jeff started having kids that dad became interested,
perhaps because these kids were part of his dead wife's as well as his (I
should say deceased, shouldn't I? But I don't care). They're only 1 and 3
now, so dad didn't have a lot of time with them, but whenever I talked to
him, he talked about them.

Dad was a bigot. His jokes were bad, but even worse when combined with
racism.

This October the four of us and our spouses are going to spread his ashes.
My sister will cry -- she wanted a second chance with him, to take care of
him properly instead of begrudgingly, though she did everything a person
could do. Mike will be matter-of-fact, very businesslike, as he always is,
and Jeff . . . who knows what's going on in Jeff's head. I don't. He's a
cypher.

I come from a family of cyphers.

Father's Day is a lovely tradition. Some of us just don't get all
teary-eyed when it comes along. But hey, he was my father, and really the
only one I had, since I ignore the multiple steps my mother tried to
provide. Well, except for the last one -- I called him yesterday to tell
him happy Father's Day. He was never my father, but he was the best husband
my mother had.

Good thing she left my father when she had a chance.

That came out sounding entirely different than what I meant. I meant, they
both had a chance to go on and be happy with partners who would dominate
them and tell them what to think, since neither of them were capable of
that on their own.

I should stop now. This is not getting better, is it?

:-)




Monique Colver