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A FATHER LOST TONITE

A FATHER LOST TONIGHT

 

My sons lost their father tonight and my daughter, a step-father. I had left and lost him thirty years ago.

 

I first met him when I was working at a small hamburger joint. He and his car pool would stop for coffee and breakfast on their 80 mile plus drive to the mine. Back in those days I would merrily flirt as I poured their coffee.

 

He was about as tall as I. A medium sized man, blonde with brown eyes, and a manner about him that I liked. Those days, a lot of bars, a lot of dancing and talking and loving went on. “Yabba, Dabba Doo” was his happy shout then.

 

He was a scrapper. More times than not, and weekly, the fight would move outside the bar. One drinking buddy or another would get his goat and the brawl was on. I would sit fearfully in the car. That’s when I first learned to put my mind in another place, so as not to be scared that he would get hurt. He never did.

 

His inner arms were scarred with cigarette burns, evidence of “who is tougher” games played in various bars. He had been in Korea and had tales of burning tents in the snow and demotion because of a binge and breaking all the barracks windows. Hard liquor made him crazy.

 

He was not physically abusive to me. If he had a paycheck he would give me the money. He was a hard worker and a neat man. He liked to hunt, fish, snowmobile, drink and smoke. He cut wood, mowed lawns, and plowed the biggest driveway I ever saw. When he didn’t have a job, he would look for work. He liked beer.

 

He wrecked more cars than I could count. I put it at seven or eight while we were married. He rarely got hurt. He also had to bury a vehicle in mud at least one time a year. Really get it stuck in the clay. I think it was therapeutic for him to work at the unstuck part. 

 

When we were a family, his thought was to provide food and shelter. As the boys grew, he spent little time teaching them.  We no longer did things together, we no longer spoke, and we were no longer affectionate. After we separated, I heard him say to another “I didn’t know what love was (or perhaps it was) how to love”. And I believe that was so.  Neither did I at the time. We did not have those tools. If you were not taught love, how can you share love?

 

I can look back now and wonder what would have happened if I had stayed a little longer? Tried a little harder? There are so many paths we can take, so many different destinations. He was a good man, he tried. So did I. We did the best we could with what knowledge we had. We succeeded in some things, failed at other things. We grow older and wiser with age.

 

I see him in my fine, strong sons and their sons and daughters. The color of an eye, hair and gait is there. The toughness, the kindness, and the stubborn streak too.  My daughter had a step-father who provided for her and cared for her and loved her as one of his own. That legacy he left in spite of himself. He did the best he could. God Bless.