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Warlord
Local Time: 13:48
Local Date: October 31, 2010
Join Date: Nov 2001
Location: MD
Posts: 184
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My father died before I ever saw the age of 21.
Looking back on the story of what has been my life, I can see many events that have unfolded before my eyes. I see the times that I experienced along with everyone else. I also see the events that were unique to me.
Growing up as a little boy, I longed for all things that little boys longed for. Legos, cap guns, and GI Joes were often found under our Christmas tree. These items were the result of hours of work that my father had put in at whatever car dealership he had worked at. Although at the time, I never thought that. I only concerned myself with what I got, and how I would play with it. My father, nevertheless, stood by with camera in hand to take the picture of a happy son who still believed that Santa, not his dad, had brought him these presents.
Growing up in Tennessee, my father enjoyed more ‘country’ things…hunting, fishing, and working on cars. I could care less about these things back then. My dad would take me fishing with him on weekends. To him, it was a ‘father and son’ moment. To me, it was a boring time that could have been better spent playing with my friends.
He often tried to get me interested in cars. He would take me to the races…stock and drag, hoping that the cool colored cars would inspire a young boys fantasy. Instead I would spend the evening with my hands cupped over my ears because the sound was too loud.
Deep in the woods we would go on a Saturday afternoon, where he would set up targets for us to shoot at. Since I liked cap guns so much, perhaps shooting a real one would be just as fun. All I remember was how terrifying the sound was, and how much the recoil hurt.
When he asked me to help work on his car, he was hoping that I would take an interest in mechanics. Instead, I just wanted him to hurry up and finish so I could go and do something fun.
This went on for years. As I became older, and my father more frail, he soon gave up on doing anything meaningful with me. As a young teenager, I spent a lot of time playing with my new Timex Sinclair 1000 (a REALY old computer) or chess in the chess club at school…not typical pastimes for and old boy from the Tennessee hills would find fascinating. Yet every Christmas, he was there, with camera in hand, and bearing just the right gift…always the one I really wanted.
Soon, my father could do little but lie in bed. His body failing. Yet he was my dad, and had always been around. We had little in common, except for love and respect for each other. We rarely argued. I took him for granted.
When my father was rushed to the hospital a few years later, the doctors made it very clear that there was a good chance he would not be coming home. My dad was diabetic, and years of neglect had cost him his pancreas. It was only a matter of time.
I clearly remember the last time I saw him in the hospital, doped up on morphine. He could barely recognize me. My mother and I visited for a while, and as we were leaving I could hear my name being shouted in the distance. I found out later that was his last spoken word.
My father died a few days later. The call came late that night, and my mother broke down completely. To me, it felt like a tremendous burden had been lifted. I had already expected this to happen, now this was closure.
Years have passed, and I have made the transition from a young adult into a man. The path that I have walked has led me through the world in a unique path. I look back at the many signposts I have passed since that late night call.
Every summer, my friends and I charter a boat to do some deep sea fishing in the Chesapeake Bay. We also spend a lot of time in the fresh water section of the Potomac catching bass and catfish.
My roommate and I used to spend a lot of time at the range. Him with his Taurus 9mm, me with my Smith and Wesson blowing threw a couple boxes of ammo, and ragging on each other as to who was a better shot that day.
I had applied for my PBA (Professional Bowlers Association) membership when I was 22. My mom was quick to remind me that when she met my dad, he also wanted to be a professional bowler.
It seems that I am indeed my father’s son, and sometimes I look back longingly wishing that I could go shooting or fishing with him again. I wish I could tell him that these things are cool, and that I thank him for taking me with him. I wish I could tell him thank you for all of the cool gifts he got for me. Then it occurred to me…I had already done so.
The seeds had been planted years ago, it just took some time for them to sprout. Every time I fish, bowl, or go to the shooting range, he is there with me. The truth is that he has been there all along. (Although I never took to working on cars. Go figure !)
I wanted this little post to go out to all of the fathers and sons during this Christmas season. Fathers, keep doing stuff with your sons…it works. Every moment that you spend with them you are tending to the seeds you planted. Sons, your fathers won’t be there forever. You are important to them, although at times it may not seem that way.
I want to end this by stating to the world how important my father was to me, and that I love him. Dad, this goes out to you. Merry Christmas to you. I love you.
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'Ice cream makes computers work better! Just spoon it in..."
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