I Have A Really Good Dad

I have a really good dad.

Honestly, I never thought I would be writing about him, let alone submitting something like this to the world. You see, my relationship with my father has always been a quiet affection. What I mean by that is that I can’t ever remember a time where he said the words ‘I love you’, but I have also never felt unloved. He has always been there for me, doing everything within his power to keep me safe, giving me a great life, and I owe much of who I am today to him.

It’s more than a little difficult to be this open and vulnerable, but something in me wanted to tell a small portion of my father’s tale. As of writing this, my father James is a man in his 70s that has lived his entire life in the state of Tennessee. Now, unfortunately with southern states there are sometimes not so hidden implications pertaining to civil liberties and the mindset of the typical older white men that are raised here. My father was no exception to this too often true upbringing. Though it brings me immense gratification to know that he overcame the prejudices indoctrinated into him from a young age by a southern culture who’s misplaced pride never quite recovered from the Civil War.

There is this nagging part of me that wants to sweep that previous statement under the rug, hide it away. I understand that some people might draw unfair conclusions about myself or my father. I can practically sense the eyerolls of each end of the spectrum, words such as ‘woke’ or ‘social justice warrior’ filling the echo chamber adjacent to the next that cries out ‘racist’ or ‘bigot’. Regardless, it was never as bad as all that, so don’t get worked up before reading the rest of the story.

As I try to put a hundred whirling thoughts and memories to pen, the first one that pops up is always the same. It’s a car ride, a trip to Opryland back when I was a small child. Opryland was an amusement park that wasn’t too terribly far away from our home. A Tennessee wonderland filled with roaring roller coasters, karaoke booths, fragrant popcorn and of course, country singers galore. My dad has always been the driver on our vacations, even if that meant a twelve hour road trip to Disney. So on this particular vacation, my parents were riding up front, naturally, with my brother, myself and a childhood friend taking up space in the back. My dad was letting us kids take turns sitting in the driver’s seat with him, allowing us to put our hands on the steering wheel and ‘drive’. In retrospect, it was very unsafe, but as kids, we didn’t care. I just remember feeling like I was ‘big’. I would crawl from the backseat to the front, strong hands grabbing at my side and just pulling me into the seat as easily as I lift my kids up today. I felt like I was actually learning to drive, trusted with this big machine and everyone in it. I was getting to turn the rubbery steering wheel of our Oldsmobile and in turn the car would glide across the open road. Though, I must have been pretty bad at it, because I don’t remember the experience lasting very long. Just a random two minutes from twenty five plus years ago that has stuck with me all this time.

I still have many memories like that one. Like the time when my father bought me Megaman for the super nintendo. It wasn't even my birthday and we definitely weren't rich enough to get games for no occasion. Still, I was fortunate to have such a good tempered and loving father. He was a man that was never a violent person, never laid a hand on any of us, never called us one bad word ever. He himself tried not to even cuss in front of us. If someone cut us off in traffic, they would be labeled a ‘jackleg’ because he didn’t want to say ass. Even if he was disciplining us, it might come in the form of being called ‘hardheaded’ or being thumped in the back of the head when we acted up in church. To be fair, though, it was always him distracting me on Sundays anyways. He would pull out a little paper and pen, playing either tic-tac-toe or connect the dots with me. I remember losing a hundred games, a big leathery bible on my lap acting as a makeshift desk while everyone else was singing hymnals around us.

Inversely, I remember a multitude of times being lured out into swimming pools, my skinny arms reaching out to grip the metal railings for dear life as my father tried to pull me out into the deep end. He must have tried to teach me to swim a dozen times or more, but somehow it just increased my fear of the water. Years later I would see things from his perspective, though, as I myself tried to convince each of my own four children that I would never let them drown. They too are hesitant to hold onto me as I go to the deep end, somehow not understanding the simple truth that I will always keep them safe. I just want to provide them some fun and help them learn.

Just like he did.

Of course, he would always get a kick out of things like that. I would make a shrill scream and buck and eventually leave the pool and just run around the ledge until he gave up. That was a big part of my childhood too, running. I mean, I was a terrible athlete and running was maybe my weakest quality despite eleven years of soccer. However, when I say running, I more accurately mean being chased. You see, bugs have given me the heebie jeebies practically my whole life. This somehow delighted my father who would often chase me around the backyard or wherever we were with a spider or some kind of insect in his mitts. Mostly, he wanted me to conquer those fears, but there was more than a little glee when he would pretend to throw them on me just to see how I would react. Mind you, none of these things were actually traumatizing.

You see, my father was a pest control technician for forty some odd years. He knew what was safe and what wasn’t. Years down the line, I would even come to work with him. At that point, I had a wife and the first two of my children. I needed to do something to make some money, and so my dad gave me a few of his old pest control books. When I say old, I mean like sixties old. I remember skimming through most of them with little interest. Regardless, a day came when my father would drive me down to take a licensing examination. It was about an hour away, in a very modern looking albeit small town building. He himself, typical to his nature, would just sit and wait in the car with the music on. I remember being a little nervous, but thank God most of the test was math. I passed on my first try, though what really filled me with pride wasn't my success but rather my dad’s reaction. You see, he has this look he gives me sometimes. He had told me about how many others attempted these tests and had failed. People at work might take four attempts before getting a high enough score to obtain a license.

But not me.

That pride was rare because it was so genuine. Every parent loves their children, and I would bet that most good fathers would say that they take pride in who their babies grow up to be. Yet still, I could see a difference in the look of his eyes, in his change of demeanor. He would tell others about how smart I was, how I hadn’t really bothered to study yet still nailed that test. Similarly, I’ve seen that expression when I’ve performed. I won’t make this story about me so much as it is about my father, but I will admit that I’m a damn good singer. My parents have had me on stage singing in front of hundreds many times over the years. My dad would drive me from the Tennessee Jamboree and mock Oprys all the way over to Loretta Lynn’s dude ranch. He paid for me to have lessons in Nashville, having to wait for literal hours for me to get out weekend after weekend. So even as an adult, when I sing at a family reunion, he’s the first to call out a song. “You should do Elvis.” He loves Elvis.

Anyways, back to what makes my father so great.

I don’t think anyone could give an honest recount on my father without at least touching on his coaching abilities. He was without a doubt one of the kindest men to children, always showing his affection through his actions. It started simple, really. He wanted me to play baseball, so he started coaching me. It started there in tee ball, but eventually we covered soccer, basketball and even bowling. Not only would he coach all these sports, he would work as a referee, he would join the board and make schedules, and eventually ascend to presidency for many years running. He once even contacted the local Amish to build our soccer fields a new concession stand, and then he literally painted the fields himself. Now, I don’t want to downplay any part my mother had in all this, because they worked as a team in all of their endeavors. She is as hardworking and loving as they come, but we’ll get to her story come Mother’s Day.

I mean, she’s awesome in her own right. It’s kind of interesting to think of how different their approaches are, yet how in unison their teamwork can be. While she’s a kind caring outward extraverted person, my father has kind of a mean expression or look about him. He looks like a grump if we’re being honest. His voice is a little gruff, he is very stoic in his expressions and mannerisms, and I’ve heard a dozen stories about how he used to throw men in dumpsters. Yet that mask couldn’t be any further from the truth. This was a man who went out of his way to assist people. When he did pest control, he would charge only what clients could afford, never taking advantage of anyone. He was there to help people, sincerely. Just as he went the extra mile to aid people with their pest issues, he put in that much work and more into the countless youth teams he supported. We had so many trophies in our house from tournaments and travel teams in baseball, soccer and bowling; half of them were from teams I hadn’t even played on. He just loved the game and loved the kids. In fact, one little boy from our soccer team was brought into our family by my dad. You see, my father was the type of person who made sure everyone had a ride, had food and drinks, all that good stuff. So when this kid didn’t have any money or even a ride, my dad would just take care of him. Then years later, that boy would eventually become my brother and come to live with us.

I imagine that was one of the racial barriers that had been brought down inside my father’s mind. That boy, Marco, was an undocumented latino from Mexico. You see, growing up I associated people of color with suspicion. Our neighbors, our friends and sadly even our family members were all raised with this notion that somehow Mexicans were going to steal all the jobs, or that black people were going to steal from us if given the opportunity. Now understand, my parents never used vulgarity about other races or anything, but sadly we were the type of people who locked their car doors out of cultural paranoia. My mother would then go on to tell me that there was no difference in our ethnicities, that we were all God’s children regardless of skin color. My father didn’t say much on the matter, neither for nor against this sentiment. Still, at the time his actions had spoken for his prejudices, which were tied up into unfortunate events stemming from his past. I won’t detail those incidents, as they don’t feel like my stories to tell and besides, that happened before my dad was a father.

Still, I’m proud of not only who my father was as he raised me, but who he came to be as we both grew up. My wife herself is a person of color and so of course that extends to our shared children. His daughter-in-law and his grandchildren, all of whom he would gladly defend with his dying breath. So while it happens much less in the present day, there have still been some misspoken old anecdotes or jokes here and there. It is very difficult to cleanse ourselves of every cultural insensitivity we were taught as children, even if our intentions are respectful and earnest. However, I know the love my father has for my wife and kids is the same he has for me. I know this because I’ve had more than a few conversations with her about how she has been treated by my family. How they dote on her, show her love, take her shopping and to restaurants and try to always include her in everything. When your wife is crying, telling you how impactful your family’s love is and how that makes her feel, that is a blessing. Regardless of differences in ethnicity, religion or even opinion, my father always treats her akin to his own flesh and blood.

I really feel like I’m not doing the man justice here, honestly, but I’m not quite sure that words will ever capture how meaningful he is to me. That in itself is a cliche, yeah? Words are never enough.

So why did I write all this?

I want to honor the man I love before it’s too late. You see, my father suffers from vascular dementia. He is also diabetic, his kidneys are failing and the doctors have told us to make plans for the worst. It’s something I think too much on, really. Sometimes it builds up and I just cry at the idea of losing him. That one day he’s here, alive and in my life, yet the next day, he might not be. Which is pretty opposite of him, really. I mentioned that he was stoic. Me? I cry at the drop of a hat. Partly because of a physical condition in which my tear ducts don't have the ability to hold tears. Mostly because I'm a softie, extremely empathetic and just connect to things. As for my father? I know of only three times he has cried in his life. Once when his mother died. Once when his grandson was taken away much too soon. We all cried then. Still do sometimes. And surprisingly, once when I had thought about moving away. I remember my friends convincing me to move to Oklahoma. It was decided in a single moment, I would leave that night. So, I called my parents to tell them, and unexpectedly what I got was my father pacing the backyard, crying. He didn’t want to lose me, and that was so powerful that it convinced me to stay. I have no idea where my life would have taken me had I actually gone through with it at left, but I can't imagine it could ever be as great as the one I've been given.

And that is the reason why I have been tearing up since I began writing this. I don’t want to lose him. Through thought and empathy, magic and prayer, through whatever beings are out there possibly listening.. I just want to hold onto him a little longer. Even though his memory is slipping further and further every day. Even though my chest gets cold and my breath catches in my throat at the possibility that one day he’ll forget us, forget me. That he’ll forget where he is, what he’s doing.. how to do things or even who he himself is. I just need him here.

I want to say that it’s not fair.

But how many kids get to have a father like him? How many of us go into our 20s and 30s being able to connect with our parents; to authentically actually enjoy our time with them? For me, a hundred years would be too soon, not nearly enough time. And though I know I’ll never be ready for loss despite how often it occurs in our lives; I do know one other thing that I have never had doubts about.

I love my dad.