A few thoughts on Father’s Day.

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father, Father's Day, fathers, life, parenthood, parents, perspective

One of my father’s favorite sayings was, “If I can’t make you happy, I can damn sure piss you off.”

He was a man of few words, but boy, did they pack a punch when they needed to.  He wasn’t, as the saying above suggests, a neutral guy.  No, he wasn’t chatty or even all that sociable, but he had strong opinions and, given the right circumstances, he let those winds blow.

And oh, how he made me happy: bringing the love of music into my life, into my tiny little five-year-old hands as he guided them across the keys of the first piano that he’d brought home; that surge of excitement that first time when I realized he’d let go after pushing me on my bike after taking off the training wheels; the sweets and treats he brought home to me and Mom every Friday afternoon after he got his paycheck; those incredible steaks he used to cook on the grill in the summertime; his unending litany of jokes and one-liners.

So many precious memories.

And yes, there were times when he pissed me off, too — most memorably (and humorously) when I was in fourth grade and, after getting into a raging alcohol-fueled argument with my mother about the state of his beard, he went into the bathroom to trim it with a pair of dull scissors.  She was always after him to keep it short, while he preferred it a little more unkempt.  I escaped most of the drama and went to bed.  When he showed up at my school the next morning to chaperone my class’s trip to the Portland Symphony, his beard had vanished.  Though he later explained that he’d “screwed it all up” and had needed to shave it off, I refused to speak to him for a couple of days and even wouldn’t sit next to him at the symphony.   I really liked his beard.  (And I can still recall the deeply apologetic glances he gave me over his shoulder from the row in front of me and just a few seats to the right.)

But then, there were more moments of genuine pissed-offed-ness: his stage fright — how could a man with that much musical talent get stage fright?!

Then there were all those times when he took my mother’s side in everything, no matter what crazy thing she said.   Those really hurt.

And I was really pissed off after he died.  Pissed at him for not taking better care of himself, for not ever exercising or eating better or drinking less or giving up those damned Camel straights that he loved so much, all of which certainly set him up for the terminal cancer that beat him just a few weeks after his fifty-first birthday.

But I’m not angry so much anymore.  It doesn’t feel good to hang on to the anger, to any anger, really.  A dear friend said that sort of thing is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

I’m lucky that I get to complain about missing my dad.  I’m lucky that I got to help the girls upstairs today in getting their Father’s Day cards and gifts ready for tomorrow’s celebration.  I’m lucky to have all those traits of my dad’s that always frustrated me: the stubbornness, the tendency towards shyness, the propensity for unhealthy choices.  But I’m also lucky that I got a sliver of his sense of humor, and his undying love of music.  We’re all lucky to be here, to have a chance at anything.  Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

 

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Saturday Morning Musings – You know what my dad used to say?

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cancer, dad, father, life, memories, perspective, The Hard Work of Living

My father would’ve turned 66 years old last Sunday.

In June of 1998, he got a check-up after changing insurance companies and was given a clean bill of health.

On the 4th of July, he and my mom came to my gig and he was limping.

On August 7th, after a few weeks of increasing pain, consultations with the doc and thinking it was sciatica (he was a machinist on his feet all day on concrete floors), he got an MRI.

It was cancer.

In his sacrum, his liver, along his spine.  “Metastatic cancer with an unknown primary” was the official diagnosis.

On November 20th, he was gone, just a few weeks after his 51st birthday.

Healthy to dead in less than six months.

Nearly fifteen years later and I still miss him terribly.

He was the one who got me started reading music, digging out all his old John Thompson books with the names “Butch” and “Roger” and “Chuck” pencilled all through them; the one who used to sit down at night sometimes with a glass of scotch or a bottle of Piels, his Camels and his old Selmer and blow along with Pete Fountain (yeah, he was that good); the one who loved my mother so completely, who had more patience for her than I ever did.

I released my new CD this week, my seventh.  It’s called The Hard Work of Living. It is dedicated to the memory of both of my parents, and also to the memory of my friend Leonora Southwick, who died very suddenly earlier this year.

It really sucks to lose people you love.

My dad died before I released my first CD. I did make a cassette once, though, called “Wrestling Angels”, that he sold to just about anyone who would listen to him brag about his daughter.

He was funny as hell.  Just about everyone loved Butch’s jokes. I can’t repeat a lot of his jokes and one-liners here for fear of losing most of my readership, heh.  Irreverent, raunchy, biting, dry.  But there are a few safe-for-all gems.

I know, it’s cliche to say, “You know what my dad used to say?” but I do quote him quite often.  A couple of my favorites:

“That guy has a lot of class, but unfortunately it’s all low.”

“Come back when you can’t stay as long.”

“That guy couldn’t pour p*ss out of a boot with instructions on the heel.”

(I have a whole notebook full of his zingers.)

I could write so much more about him, and I’m sure I will again at some point.  Honestly, though, what I remember most vividly about him were the times when he said nothing, or very little, those times when a glance – either accompanied by a smirk, a scowl, a stitched brow, a chuckle or a clenched jaw – would speak volumes.  Sure, he could never get a word in edge-wise with my mom doing all the talking all the time… but I really think that even outside of the sphere of my mom’s craziness, he really was a man of very few words.  But those words were usually quite powerful and unforgettable.

My favorites?  “I’m proud of you, kid.”

What I wouldn’t give to hear him say those words just one more time.