Thinking of Dad

Me, my dad and my sister Martha at my dad's business, Fall 1974

On this Mother’s Day weekend, my thoughts turned to my father – not because it is Mothers' Day today, but because I just spent most of the weekend with my five younger children.

I picked up the Quads late Friday afternoon and brought them back to our house for pizza, a movie and a sleepover.   We watched “Captain America,” which Aaron had been clamoring for.  The kids loved it.  We made Annie close her eyes in a few places, but otherwise it wasn’t that “bad.”  Parenthetically, we had a discussion about what constitutes “bad.”  I’m trying to help the children to learn more nuanced feelings and thoughts, rather than simply slotting things into one of two categories.  Through this exercise, they articulated that what might be “bad” about a movie like “Captain America” is that there might be parts that are scary.  Scary doesn’t necessarily equal “bad” (morally).  Some scenes might be age-inappropriate, but that’s another matter.

In fact, the kids liked the movie so much that they wanted to watch it again when we returned to the house Saturday afternoon after being out and about, even though they’d only be able to watch the first half before it was time to go home.  I sat down to watch part of it with them and was sitting next to Levi at the part where Captain America goes missing after his first secret mission – a mission his commanding officer did not authorize.  

When this officer was berating his subordinate, a beautiful female officer who had obviously fallen in love with Captain America but also believed in him, he accused her of helping Captain America go on the mission because she had a crush on him.  She replied that, no, she did it because she had “faith” (in Captain America).   Whereupon Levi said off-handedly, “Oh, great!  Now she’s going to talk about church!”  

Earlier in the day, Mark took the kids down to the local elementary school to play some basketball with them.

Playing H-O-R-S-E

Esther is a natural athlete

Levi needed a little help

After eating more of the pizza we didn’t finish the night before, I took the kids to a playground in West Jordan that is billed as the largest playground in Utah.  I knew I had scored when, after seeing it for the first time, Aaron (who tends to be somewhat cynical) said, “Whoa!  This is big!”

The kids had a lot of fun, running around on their own, exploring the various parts of the playground.  

Esther particularly enjoyed the hanging tire swing that twirled around.  She and Aaron were having a great time on it, so I took some video of it.  I didn’t realize until after I had taken the clip, however, that Aaron had by that time had his fill of it and was starting to feel sick.  Oops.

It was while I was sitting on a bench, watching the kids play, that I thought of my father.  I have thought of him a lot since Jean and I separated.  He left home when I was 12, during the summer before I went into 8th grade.  After a very ugly two years, my parents finally divorced in the fall of my sophomore year in high school.  The following spring, he moved his business to Ohio.  Whereas before, he had lived less than 10 minutes away, he now would live eight hours away by car.

As I sat there at that park in West Jordan, I thought about things I had done with my dad during those initial two years, then during my junior and senior years of high school, after he had moved to Ohio.  I thought of all the parts of his life that he had to hide during those years, how fragmented his life was in some ways.   I thought of passages in his day planners from this period that I had read after he died a few years ago which gave me additional insights into what he was feeling, thinking and experiencing.

I also thought about how special I felt when I was with my dad.  Like the time he took my brother and me on a trip to Colorado when I was a freshman.

I thought of the time that someone, I suppose it was my brother Dan, drove my sister Martha and me to Indianapolis one time to meet Dad for lunch at the Steak ‘n Shake – just to spend a few hours with him after he had moved to Ohio.

Then, after I turned 16 in the fall of my junior year, he flew Martha and me up to Ohio where he surprised me with a car – a 1972 Luxury LeMans – that would enable me to drive up and visit him.  He purchased this car even though at the time he was living in a rented trailer that was infested with mice.  I can still recall hearing their scurrying the one time I stayed there.

Then there were the trips that we started taking together – like the one to Niagara Falls in the summer between my junior and senior years.

There was much that wasn’t very pleasant about my parents’ divorce.  But there were good times after the divorce was finally completed and both of my parents were able to move on with their lives.  

I thought about these times as I sat on that bench.  I thought of my dad with increased understanding and appreciation for what he went through and the efforts he made.  I thought of how I felt when I was with him.  And I thought of my own children, about what they have expressed to me and about how much remains below the surface, unrecognized or which they are afraid to share.

I continue to go through a process of integrating my life and myself.  It sometimes seems like I have just returned home after having lived in a foreign country as an ex-patriot for 30 years.  I am re-establishing connections, sorting, processing, coming home.  But also moving on.