Remembering My Father

Father's Day is not such a big deal for me any more, since my dad died in 1989, just before I turned 16. I don't always think of the day too much, but I confess there are years when it creeps up and grabs me more than I care to admit.

While I quietly remember his birthday and the day he died each year, it's not often much more than a bit of time to reflect. But in more recent years I realize something shocking: He's been been gone for more than half my life. Sometimes that hurts.

For nearly 16 years I had my father around, and for the last 21 he's been gone, just to reappear in photo albums and memories. (March 21 will be the 21st anniversary of his passing.)

Each year I think of him and remember how he and I would do jigsaw puzzles, or the movies he'd take me to see. ("Clash of the Titans" still holds a soft spot for me because he took me to see it when I visited him one summer. My 9-year-old self reemerges each time I watch it.)

Or, I remember that he'd help me with homework. Sometimes one of his "two-minute history lessons," as he called them, would snowball into a two-hour anything-is-game lesson where he'd pull out almanacs and encyclopedias and we'd be off into the details of World War II or the geography of Africa. You name it, I was never bored.

He wasn't a highly educated man, but his passion for knowing stuff was catchy. It captivated me and helped stoke a (mostly) good hunger for knowledge. There was nothing like frittering away a few hours poring through maps of the world and links to the past.

My mom encouraged me to read to make me smarter and widen my horizons, but my dad was the one who bought me books where I could pursue my interests: anything from fantasy to history to the paranormal. And he probably jump-started the delicious sense of self-indulgence I still get when I have time to read. As a kid, all those books were like a playground. I loved finding out weird facts and historic details and could amuse myself all day if permitted.

But there are other things I reflect on now, too. My dad was in his forties when I was born, so he had a lot of years ahead of my arrival. When you're a kid and a teen you have a lot of other concerns, from school to clothes to the latest movie or record. And nobody expects their dad to die when they're 15.

Some days I wonder about his life. He would share the odd story about his childhood and the neighborhood he grew up in Detroit, and my mom fleshed out added details sometimes, too. But some days I hunger for more. I want stories about his childhood, about our family. Was his first kiss in the playground or at a dance? (If he'd even share that memory with me.) Did he get into trouble in school? What kind of odd jobs did he hold?

He was in the military, too. He lied about his age to join the military and fight in World War II. He got shot in the hand while in Italy. I want to know how that happened. Alive today, he could paint a picture of his past, his reflections of serving and of the war. Sure, I heard some of the stories, but many are missing, lost forever.

He was stationed in Korea and in Alaska for a while. I want to know about that, too. Sometimes I'll be watching old wartime reels on cable, from Korea or from Italy from the 1940s and 1950s, and I have this odd habit of scanning the faces of the troops. Sometimes I swear I've caught a glimpse of him in the crowds at a USO show. Other times I tell myself it's crazy, just wishful thinking.

I have one photo of him straddling a wrecked motorcycle, with a devil-may-care look on his face. I want to know if he wrecked it. And if this guy who paid his bills like clockwork and did his own taxes enjoyed mixing it up from time to time. Was Dad a badass? Did he party and sow his wild oats overseas, eventually growing into a 9 to 5 guy who drank his coffee, read his paper, did the crossword and mowed the lawn each weekend? I never got that impression of him as a badass from his or my mom's stories. But the motorbike photo is a fun souvenir, a cool snapshot from a murky past.

So I'll never have to wrestle with buying him a gift again, debating whether to buy him a DVD or a plant or cook him a special Father's Day dinner. But I've lost more than the cost of that gift, the effort of preparing and planning it. I've lost the time to talk and connect. I've lost a link to the past, to my past, forever.

But I've got my memories and some photos and a good imagination. That'll have to do.