Thinking about Dad

This weekend, I missed my dad as I spent time with our great-grandson, Tristan. So I went looking for favorite photos of Dad and me. I am 25 in this one and it is at my 10th Wedding Anniversary--the shotgun was no longer visible, so Mr. Fun & I celebrated by having a real wedding with white dress, flowers, cake, and a photographer. Ten years earlier, Dad had not been at my wedding.

Say the word "dad" and I think of newspapers, wooden drumsticks, and an extremely ugly white Nash Rambler station wagon. I think of vodka with a trace of orange juice. I hear a litany of swear words with jazz playing loudly in the background.

Before I was conceived, my dad left my mom. A short time later they got back together. I was the remedy that would save their marriage. Sometime between my third and fourth birthdays, my dad left again, permanently. I have no recollection of Daddy ever living in the same house with me. I do, though, remember that he came every two weeks to spend time with my older sister and me. When he remarried, we would then go spend a couple weekends a month at his house. So I learned about step-moms and step-siblings.

My dad was an only child. His mom, my Grammie Teele, was 41 years old when he was born. Dad's father was considerably older than Dad's mom and had emigrated from England. When Dad was 16, his father died. My dad then lied about his age to join the U.S. Army. When he told the truth several months later, he was released as a homesick youth to return to his mom. Several years later he re-entered the military to become an Army paratrooper. He was stationed at Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia, where my mom was born and raised.

My dad worked hard; he played hard; when I was a little girl, Daddy always drank hard.

When I was a young teenager, Dad would drive from L.A. County east to Corona to take my sister and me south through Elsinore and Temecula, and over to Carlsbad on the coast where Grammie Teele lived. As we took that 90 minute journey, I always noticed that Dad would stomp on the gas pedal and then gradually ease off. Then he'd stomp on it again, and again gradually ease off. It was as though he couldn't decide if he wanted to go or not.

Dad dreamed of being a writer. He had notions of being a journalist, a short-story writer, a novelist. His life was so fragmented that I don't think he had the time to hone his skill. Dad dreamed of being a musician. He was always tapping with drumsticks on some solid surface trying to conjure a tune from some distant reservoir of his mind. He never got serious enough to play music with a group at a club. Instead he was a dreamer in the audience.

I also think Dad's desire was to be happily married, have two daughters, and to live well. That must have been the case because he never gave-up on the concept of marriage even though he could not make a marriage work. My mom was his first wife; however, he had no less than a half-dozen wives before he died at the age of 66.

Much of the fabric of my life is woven from the threads of Dad's life. As I have matured, I have learned to appreciate what I have gained from Dad. I know my love of writing came from him. I'm sure that a good portion of my tenacity and my ability to dream came from him. I'm thankful that Dad lived long enough to see me go to college as a re-entry student and after six-years of studying and dreaming to land the position I had longed for.

I wish he had met my three grandkids and my great-grandson.

Tonight, here on the West Coast, I'm missing Dad. Good night everyone.

Rosie, aka Carol