For a long time, I've been oddly obsessed with the date that my father died. Not the day itself, but rather how old he was and when I would reach that same age to the day, outliving him as it passed. As I get closer to it, I wonder what went through his mind at that time, and what his thoughts were on eternity and his legacy.
My father was well educated and could speak knowledgeably about myriad subjects, though he was mostly self-taught. He told me countless things as an adolescent which seemed to make no sense, but which I later found to be right. He influenced me much more than I ever realized was happening at the time.
In my first thoughts about writing this, I wanted to wax poetic about his love of cars and motorcycles, or the local New York sports teams he rooted for, or his right-brain approach to the arts. He was all of those things and none of them at the same time, as he never defined himself by an allegiance to a hobby.
So I chose to focus on what made him tick, and how that affected what makes me tick.
My dad was born in July of 1940, and he would be 83 years old now. Is that old? I guess compared to the majority of people living, it is. Maybe if cancer hadn't taken him at 58, something else would have by now. Or maybe he would be enjoying his retirement, and his end would be just around the corner.
I'll never know of course.
But it strikes me as odd, wondering today with the mind of a man close to his age when he died, what he might've thought about how he lived his life, and about facing that end.
Dad was variably both a complicated and simple man. He smoked and drank too much, but wasn’t violent or overly temperamental. He functioned at a high level, never missing work or family functions. He loved my mother with all that he had, even while his demons tried to sabotage their marriage.
A free spirit in a lot of ways, he rode motorcycles and raced cars, and dreamed of retiring to Costa Rica. He also apparently dabbled in drugs (never in our presence - I wasn’t even aware until just before he died). I don’t even know for sure if he was using, or for how long.
Was it something he started in his final months to deal with the pain of his illness? Was he trying to supplement the family income at a time when he was too sick to work? Again, I’ll never know.
But he was simultaneously quite reserved in many other ways, exuding a tremendous work ethic and frugality that carried his family at the expense of his personal pursuits. He lived within his means, somewhat paradoxically for someone with his proclivities. There were numerous instances of friends or family members, who made more money and lived more extravagant lives, nevertheless seeking out Dad for monetary help.
He had experiences, often voluntarily, that many of us would consider reckless or self-destructive, yet he was fairly conservative about trying to limit the impact of his actions on the rest of the world.
Those actions nonetheless still had an effect on those around him, even negatively sometimes. But he attempted to minimize that, at least to the best of his abilities. Sometimes, of course, he came up short in those goals. My mother raised us in a highly protective way, likely to counterbalance his alcoholism.
He was, and is, a stark reminder to me about our imperfections. I cared for him deeply, yet disowned him at one point as a young adult over his shortcomings with alcohol. I didn’t want to be enabling.
I don't know if that was the right decision; it seemed so at the time. I thought - or hoped, at least - that it might have an impact on his self-destructiveness. I try not to second guess it, but in retrospect, I regret any time that caused me to miss him. It never occurred to me that time would be so limited.
He was my father; I thought he would live forever.
When I think back to my childhood, I remember a man who was present to teach me and to share experiences with me, but not in the way some truly involved fathers are. We’d have a catch, work on the car, or do Cub Scouts or Little League baseball, and I was happy for his involvement.
But underneath the encouraging words and supportive smile it always seemed more responsibility than passion. Not because of anything he said - he never treated me poorly or made me feel like a burden - it was just my impression of his inner self. Kids are more perceptive than we give them credit for.
Was that enough? I’ve known fathers whose entire existence revolved around their sons. I never once felt my dad loved me any less than they did their sons, but it was certainly different. He was a very practical, analytical sort of person; rarely overly emotional, good or bad. I’ve become more like him the older I get.
In many ways, I’ve come to believe that what he did was even more impressive. It’s easy to be involved when you’re wired for passionate fatherhood - you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing. But getting involved with your children, even when it’s not your natural inclination, is a sacrifice on their behalf which I’ve come to find admirable.
I realized this more as I entered adulthood and observed so many disinterested fathers who let that feeling dictate their actions regarding their kids. Their emotional absenteeism left indelible scars because they couldn’t find the strength to set aside what they wanted and prioritize their children’s needs.
I really figured it out when I eventually experienced this with my own boys. I’ve never been particularly into kids, but I followed my father’s footsteps by doing my best to always be there for my own. It was his practicality that rubbed off - if you don’t want children, then don’t have them; but if you do, then put them first.
I wonder, now that they’re adults themselves if my sons feel that I did enough. If they’ve ever felt envious of friends whose fathers were more outwardly excited about their sons’ interests than I was. If they ever found themselves questioning the depth of my love for them. Neither of them has children of their own yet, and it took raising them to allow me to truly appreciate the sacrifices my father made to make me a better man.
I was 31 when my dad passed away, 25 years ago now. I miss him terribly, even as my memory of him fades as the years pass. Being an adult man is challenging enough without being deprived of the experience and wisdom of your father to guide you.
Zephareth Ledbetter is the author of “A White Man’s Perspectives on Race and Racism”, available as an ebook at smashwords.com/books/view/1184004, and has numerous articles on SubStack.
Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
You bet - take care.
Great article- thanks. Your dad sounds like a really decent guy; everyone has their flaws. I grew up without a dad and tell people rather bluntly, kids need a dad, regardless of their shortcomings. And I don’t have much patience for people who whine that their dad’s didn’t hug them enough, or treat them like a Hallmark commercial. I think your take is perfectly well said.