If he had lived, my father would be 100 years old. He died more than 55 years ago when I was in high school, leaving my mom a widow at age 40 and my sister and me fatherless when, it could be argued, we needed a father most. I’m not sure about that because life with father was not always sweetness and light.
I often think about the “what ifs” had he not died so young. On Father’s Day, an emotional tide ebbs and flows with memories both dark and light. I tend to enhance or minimize the influence he had on me. I wonder what our father-son dynamic would have been like had he lived to meet my wife and his grandchildren. I wonder if he would have been proud of my success as a journalist. Would the serendipity of my life from New England to North Dakota not have happened had he been around to counsel me?
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Father and son relationships can be complicated and confrontational. In my case, the complications and confrontations came early and were never resolved because he died. He was a complex man whose demons were released when he got drunk. And despite his advancing heart disease, he got drunk. He was, in today’s parlance, a functional alcoholic. He worked as a printer to provide his family with a nice home and the benefits of stable, modest middle-class status. We never wanted for anything.
When sober he was a witty charmer, intelligent and well-read — a winning personality to which others were drawn. When he was drunk he was an abusive monster. He was drunk nearly every weekend. The abuse was physical and psychological. When he was in an alcoholic rage, our home was a fearsome place. It was routine for us to get out and stay with relatives until he sobered up. He always did.
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Still, as I recall terrifying bad times, I also embrace memories of genuinely good times. He was a fisherman. I learned from him on excursions to the lakes and ponds of rural Connecticut. Our last fishing trip seems like yesterday. He was weak from his damaged heart. We rented a rowboat at Peatworks Pond just a few miles south of our town. Motorized boats were banned there. I rowed because he could not. As the day warmed, we began pulling in fat large-mouth bass from beneath the lily pads. It was a good time: a stringer of bass, perfect summer weather; a midday break for sandwiches and Cokes, my dad and I relaxed and laughing as we landed another lunker. I can still hear the squeak and thump of the oars in the rowlocks as we headed back to the dock at sunset.
It is not possible to erase grim memories of my father. They are indelibly etched on my mind’s slate. But good times — like that last fishing trip — are there, too. Thus, it’s a matter of emphasis, of choice, of determination to seek the light and diminish the dark. That’s a worthy strategy for Father’s Day.
