My Dad, A Human Being

My Dad, a Human Being

My mom has often told me negative stories about my dad. I’ve asked her not to. She does it anyway. And now, as her short term memory fails her, she’ll tell them over and over. “Please, Mom, I don’t want to hear stories about how bad Dad was.” A minute later, she’s recalling how he begged her in letters from Seattle, where he was stationed in the army, to marry her when they were young. She had a good job in retail and didn’t want to leave her job, but her dad, who had mental problems, made it difficult for her to live at home and she couldn’t support herself. She married Dad. Right away, she felt he wasn’t that happy to be a married man. She felt betrayed. Then there was the time he took her and three kids to live in the wilderness of Alaska. She felt isolated, especially when he was gone to Anchorage for days at a time, working in an army band. There are more stories; I won’t bore my readers with them. But what I’m going to do in this story is create my positive memory thread to counteract the negative memory thread.

My dad, Stan Worden, grew up with a strong, capable mom and an irresponsible dad who cheated on the mom.  Stan enjoyed hiking trails, with his dog, in the Michigan woods near his home. I don’t have many memories of him in my early years, but I do have a picture of him holding me at the edge of a lake, bending over to dangle my feet in the water.  And I do remember watching him plant a big vegetable garden on the homestead in Willow. I remember him sitting at the table studying Trigonometry because he wanted to leave the army and get a job surveying land near Willow. And when my pet goat, Sugarfoot got killed by a dog, he told me, “Shelley, don’t cry. When Nana (a female goat) has her babies, you can pick out one for your very own.” I was ten then.

He was gone a lot during the following years working at sales jobs that took him away from home for days at a time. I remember sitting in the back seat as he drove us to church one Sunday morning, when out of the blue, he remarked, “I read an article in Readers Digest that if a father isn’t in his daughter’s life enough, she’ll turn to boys.” I was fourteen.

“That can’t be true!” I protested. But deep inside, I knew it was true. I really liked having boyfriends. He continued to spend time away from the family, travelling from Mt Lake Terrace, Washington to Vancouver to work in sales. But on the weekends, we went on family picnics to campsites, which we continued doing after he moved the family (five kids by then) to Vancouver. We also went to church where he led the choir, and after church sometimes, we ate lunch at a nearby buffet. That was quite a treat, as a family our size couldn’t go out to eat often on a modest income. My brothers and I enjoyed filling our glasses with shots of soda, different flavors. We called them suicide drinks, which was funny since they were non-alcoholic.

Yes, my dad annoyed me sometimes. He was a little OCD, checking to see if I got the dishes clean when I washed them after dinner. He complained about my bangs hanging in my eyes; it was the style. He didn’t want me to wear makeup or nail polish.  But that was his way of saying, “I love you and don’t want you to grow up.”

I did grow up though. I graduated from high school and decided to work for a year and save money for college. I found a job at an insurance company in Portland. He worked for Alpenrose Dairy in Portland, first as a delivery person and later as a sales manager. So, in the mornings, we rode together from Vancouver, across the Columbia River into Portland. I remember one day he was filling up at the gas station and when he got back into the car, a song was playing on the radio, “Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed.” A look of astonishment crossed his face. “Yeah, not all the popular songs are like that,” I assured him and he looked relieved. It often rained in the Pacific Northwest and he would comment, “I love the rain. Everything is so fresh and clean.” To this day, I like rain.

The year came to a close and I put in my notice with the insurance company, making plans to attend a college in Idaho. He picked me up from work one day and took me out to lunch. He gave me a gift of a manual typewriter. That was before the days of personal computers. I had that typewriter for probably twenty years. When the time came, he drove me to Idaho and helped me settle in my dorm room. I know he thought of me during the next year and a half, because he wrote me letters.

I met Tom and we made plans to marry. Dad had only met him once and he was apprehensive. “A person who would take drugs has to be pretty stupid,” he protested. I reminded him that Tom’s drug use was prior to a religious conversion and that he was no longer taking LSD or smoking pot. Still, as Dad stood at the back of the church, ready to walk me down the aisle, he said, “It’s not too late to back out.”

 

About seven years later, Tom and I moved to Portland, Oregon where he wanted to attend a Bible college. We lived with my parents in Battle Ground, Washington for a few weeks; and one day as we visited Dad at his real estate business, he put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Tom,” he said, “If I could pick out a husband for my daughter, it would be you.” That was such a moment. Not long after that, Tom and I found a place to rent in Portland, we found jobs, and he started school.  On a beautiful day in October, I came home from working with special needs students at the school across the street, and noticed a beautiful red rose blooming still in my back yard. I came inside and the phone rang, “Is Tom home?” my brother Stan asked.

“Not yet, he’ll be home soon.” I hung up thinking, “That was weird; I wonder what he wants to talk to Tom about.” Tom came home. The phone rang again. That morning, Dad had gone to work at his real estate office. His back was bothering him. He took some time off to see his chiropractor, who worked him in to his schedule. Feeling a little relieved in his back, he was putting his jacket on, when he collapsed. He was dead. A heart attack. He was 48. I was 28.

 I picked that red rose and took it in a vase to his funeral, placing it by his picture on a table by his coffin.

In the years that followed, I came to visit my mom. Her grief journey focused more and more on bad memories.  One morning, after spending the night there, I had a dream. Dad was coming to the front door and I could see him through the window where I slept. He rang the doorbell. I was worried it would wake Mom up and she’d be mad; she often had difficulty sleeping. I tried to rise out of bed to answer the door. Then the image of him faded. He disappeared. I determined that my memories of him would not disappear. I will always remember the good things. He will not fade away.

 

Author's Note

Grief is a struggle. It is different for each person. I hope your grief journeys are made better with good memories.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

It is a softer grief if you have good memories to fall back on. I think it's good that you focus on the good things about your Dad. Each one of us has our faults. Not one of us is perfect. This situation is made more difficult for you because of your mum's own memories which don't recall so many of the positives. Your Dad loved you. That's what is important Shelley. Good to see a post from you. Hope you are well.

Chris

[Shelley Warner]

Thank you Chris for such kind words. I am well, haven't been as active on Writers Cafe lately. Hope you are well too.

[Chris Shaw]

All reasonable Shelley. Adjusting to the loss of my mum in Feb. Will take time.

[Shelley Warner]

I am sorry to hear of your loss. That wasn't long ago. Yes, it takes time.

[Chris Shaw]

You take care. Hope your grandchildren are OK.

[Shelley Warner]

They are. I've had some ups and downs with my granddaughter, but we are in a program that provides in home counselling, which really helps. I'm just about to post a story about a recent experience with my grandson.

[Chris Shaw]

Will take a look. Not easy being the main carers for grandchildren. I understand that well. Hard work, but rewarding too.

[Samuel Dickens]

I think only little children are "perfect" and free of faults. When we grow up, we're obliged to do a lot of things that we may not be good at. (Like being a parent) God knows I wasn't good at it--now a reason for great remorse on my part. Your dad was nowhere near the worst, I assure you. I guess I mentioned before that my mother was also 48 when she died of a heart attack.
Forgiveness is the answer, I think. We must forgive those who've done poorly by us, for we are flawed, too.

[Shelley Warner]

Forty eight is so young, isn't it. I'm sorry for the loss of your mom. I hope you find healing from your remorse about parenting. Yes, forgiveness is the answer. When I wrote this story, I also posted it on Facebook. I ended up having a good talk with one of my brothers. He had a more difficult relationship with our dad. "I have forgiven him," he told me. We agreed, too,that we had to forgive our mom for all the negative stories. Thanks for reading.