Thursday, July 9, 2009

The First Time I Saw Him, The Last Time I Saw Him

I have, for the greatest part of my adult life, managed to keep the subject of my biological father closed, out of mind, and buried. But like toxic waste, stored for decades, that eventually seeps out of its storage drums and bubbles to the surface, I find myself of late, and with increasing frequency, dwelling on various scenarios from the past that include him. Not sure why. It may be because when I look in the mirror, I see him. It may be that as I grow older there is an emerging, natural need to put personal history in order. It may be that as I look at my own life, the worst parts of me, the parts I don't like, especially my temper, are clearly echoes of my father. At night, when my head is on the pillow and sleep is evasive and my mind is in that free-form state where private hauntings that are daily drowned out by the minutiae of life float to the surface, revisiting memories of my father, some of them 50 years old, has been happening more and more often. There was a conscious, intentional decision long ago to drop all connection, all consideration of that aspect of my life, to acknowledge no influence, and to allow no false sentimentality. But like on a computer hard drive, deleting something doesn't mean it's gone.
My father was a bad man. He was dishonest. He was a con. He was lazy. He was irresponsible. He was a liar. And, most of the time, he was absent. As a child, though, none of this, except the absence, was apparent to me. In fact, my earliest memories of him are of a big, burly, coarse whiskered, flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, cowboy boot wearing, tractor trailer driver who would show up unexpectedly at our house, and immediately pick me up and put me on his shoulders. He was a larger than life super-hero to me. He drove fast, exciting cars, showed up on motorcycles, bought me cowboy hats, took me along in his truck, had real guns, talked about horses, knew how to shoot pool, and simply was everything a single mom in 1960 could not be for a 5 or 6 or 7 year old boy. I idolized him. I loved when people would say to my Dad, ''Who's your little helper? He looks just like you. Little Leon.” I longed deeply for him to stay. But he would only be around 2 or 3 days. I'd check in the mornings if he was still here, and when he was it was my dream come true. But after a few days, he'd leave in his truck, and tell me he'd be back next Saturday, or some such promise, but months would pass.
We all, no doubt, have particularly hurtful incidences stored away, things we have trouble looking squarely at ourselves, much less sharing frankly with others. One of mine is a time when my father told me, point blank, I'll pick you up Friday morning, and we'll go fishing. I got my tackle box and rod ready the day before. Friday morning I got up early and sat on the arm of the chair by the picture window where I could watch for him to pull up. He never came. Nobody said a word. Mom was at work, my Grandma was there with me, but what could she say? They surely knew he was unlikely to show, but I would never have accepted that. By about noon, I had given in to the reality, and was heartbroken. It still hurts today.
Like that particular day, all the conflicting emotions I felt regarding my Dad were mine alone to sort out and internalize. In our home, the subject of my father, why he didn't live with us and where he was, was off limits. It was simply not something we talked about. Even as a 5 or 6 year old, it was clear to me that Mom didn't share my adoration, and seemed dismayed and disapproving when he would show up. Often, in fact usually, when he was with us for a few days it would include a loud argument punctuated by swearing and door slamming. Sometimes police came. Once my grandfather hurried us out the front door and we all crouched behind the car in our driveway while my father wielded a rifle inside. The fights were always about money, child support I guess-or lack thereof-but in my naivete, I just put my pillow over my head, and wished it would pass so he wouldn't leave.Against that background, there was no point in expressing to Mom my deep desire for him to stay, or the embarrassment I endured with neighborhood kids, in scouts, and in school.
In, I think, 6th grade, after increasingly long gaps between appearances, my Mom told me she was finally going to seek a divorce. That was about 1968. The next time I saw him was Memorial Day weekend, 1976. My Mom called me at my apartment and said, “Your father just called. He's in York, if you want to see him he'll be in the North Mall parking lot in 1 hour.” When we met, he was driving a red and white GMC tractor trailer, now had white hair and a goatee, and in mere minutes my adulation had resumed .For the next few months, I saw him nearly everyday. He taught me to drive a truck. After all these years, I had a relationship with my father.
At twenty-one years old, I was only slightly less impressionable and willing to suspend disbelief than at 7 years old, but there began to be chinks in the armor. We had dozens of conversations about “the missing years”, and his version of the years he was married to my mother, and I spotted the occasional inconsistency or contradiction. Slowly, over weeks and months, the chinks in the armor became gaping holes. I met his other kids, not too much younger than me. I had asked him about “Shirley”, a mistress I heard fights about when I was 5 or 6. He told me she died of cancer. Then, a few weeks later, Shirley, mother of the other kids, dropped them off to visit their Dad! I learned from the oldest boy, Mike, that my Dad lived with them, in Camp Hill, all those years when I'd see him 6 or 7 days a year. I learned that he was not, as he had told me, living in Florida prior to returning to York in May. He actually lived on South Queen Street in York, and made no effort to contact me, or my sister, for more than 7 years, but had regular visits with the other kids. Like Dorothy and the Scarecrow, et al, seeing the pathetic little man behind the curtain pretending to be Oz, I suddenly, completely, definitively saw him for what he was. He was a habitual liar-about all things big and small. He was a fraud, who pretended to own things he didn't own. His “war stories” were made up. He'd make countless promises he'd not only fail to keep, but not even remember he'd made. For a time, I told myself this was my father, and after all those years of longing for his involvement in my life, I'd make the best of it, pretend I believed him when he manufactured facts, and maintain a civil, but arms length relationship. But, for the first time in my life, with opened eyes, I saw him.
The last time I saw him, a year or so after the reunion, he was living in a row house in a very bad part of the city-a house he told me he bought as an investment, and was renting out the other side. The house was actually owned by an Aunt I hadn't seen in 10 years, who left him live there. I went there with my girlfriend to show him the Harley I'd just gotten. I can see him now, sitting on the front stoop, telling tall tales about his motorcycles, and I knew, then, whatever bond I'd tried to maintain, or create, or imagine was gone. He was as irrelevant to my life now as he was when I was 5, only now I knew it. My Mom had it right. She knew he would only let you down, and she let me find that out for myself.
In 1988, I was mowing our lawn, and saw Lori standing on the side porch waving the phone at me. “It's your Mom”. She was calling to tell me my father had died. “Thanks for calling, but I need to finish the grass.” My father “passed away” a long time before.

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