Things My Father Told Me
From my interview with Fran Reitz of the Courier Tribune newspaper in Seneca, KS. (Regarding why did you want to write a book?)
"I think the final straw was talking to Dad when he was sick in 2013 (knowing it might be one of the last chances I'd get to have a Real discussion with him) and telling him, "Dad, I don't know what I want to do with my life."
He asked me, "What do you want to do?"
Without really thinking about it I told him, "Well, ultimately I want to be a writer."
He looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Well then, that's what you should do."
It took a few more years of stop and go progress to follow through with that advice, but that moment of approval, that affirmation that it was ok to pursue my dreams knowing I'd have full support from my parents (even if posthumously), was enough to green light this pursuit. "
***
I'll be honest, this past week has sucked. Not overtly or continuously, some good things have definitely happened, but there has been an ongoing sucky undertow all week leading up to Sunday, also known here in the U.S (and Jack tells me in the U.K.) as "Father's Day."
If I'm honest, I've been putting off this follow-up to Saturday's post because I'm not really sure where to go with it. I also don't enjoy breaking down as a blubbering mess (although I'm probably overdue for a good healthy cry at this point).
If you've read Ash to Ashes already or even just flipped through the pages, you have probably run across the dedication page. I'll repost it here to save you the effort of flipping back. I'm helpful like that.
For Dad
You supported my dreams, encouraged my imagination, and showed me what it was to be a father. You are missed but not forgotten.
Dad died in January of 2013 after a head-spinningly brief fight against Stage 4 lung cancer. There's a lot of other words and details I could use to describe what that experience was like. None of them are positive. There are limits (believe it or not) to what I'll write here. This is one of them.
One might assume, based on the relationship Kalamsham and Ashton have in the book, that the relationship I had with my own father was one filled with "Ward and the Beav" style pep talks and life lessons over hunting/fishing trips or whatever. It wasn't. We didn't have a bad relationship by any stretch of the imagination, don't get me wrong. My dad just wasn't the most emotionally available guy when I was growing up. (I'd learn what factors played into that once I was an adult, which will also not be written about here because it's not my story to tell. The most obvious one, though would be "Thanks 1950s Patriarchal Society.")
Dad wasn't a big talker (with me as a kid--as an adult he was pretty great) but he was there. That one bizarre football season in 7th grade he made it to the games (even though I pretty much just stood on the sideline behind everyone else hoping the coach wouldn't see me). He made it to my music programs (even the horrifyingly painful grade school ones). He supported my involvement in music and theatre and never gave me flack for not doing the socially desirable high school sports that were just assumed to be part of a small town boy's school career. As I look back on it now, I can't help but feel like he may have even been quietly proud of my willingness to buck the social norms for the sake of being true to my actual interests in school.
There are plenty of examples I can give to demonstrate how my dad showed he cared without being especially verbal about it. I just typed and deleted a whole list of items while trying to determine what was relevant. What stands out in a relevant sense was Dad's willingness to let me watch TV shows and movies that he personally didn't appreciate, but he knew I liked. Our resident King of the Remote put up with a whole lot of Superman, Gremlins, Ernest Scared Stupid, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the movie), Legend, Ghostbusters, and Neverending Story (which for him probably felt literal). I didn't realize he did this, mind you, until I was living with my parents for a time as an adult and he would run across a movie or series, comment "Hey, I found one of your shows," and relinquish control of the TV so that I could watch a Harry Potter movie, a ghost hunting show, one of the super hero movies, or something else to that effect. He'd go and do something else in the house and I'd be left with the remote wondering, "What just happened?" Dad didn't understand my fascination with fantasy, sci-fi, superheroes, or supernatural thrillers, but he knew it was something I was interested in, so he supported it.
Dad and I didn't really start talking with any degree of depth until I was in my mid-twenties. (Yes, I was a momma's boy growing up, STFU.) I think that was about the point when we both realized we had more in common than we previously acknowledged, and we could talk to each other like adults instead of with that awkward parent-child dynamic. I still had plenty going on that he didn't get, but he was at least willing to try and be understanding about it, which was way more progressive than I gave him credit for (because I was also an idiot who wasted a lot of valuable time that I regret missing out on now).
I titled this Blog entry "Things My Father Told Me," but for the life of me, I can't remember most of our actual conversations. I guess what was more important were the things he said without words. Kind of ironic considering his youngest son became a writer.
It's come up a few times this last week or two where people have asked me, "Do you think your father would have been proud?"
I've smiled politely and nodded, replying, "I think so." In the mean time I've also swallowed the urge to start crying and went on with the conversation like I hadn't just been slapped in the face with an emotional sledge hammer.
It's a valid question though...
Would my dad be proud of me for getting my book published and pursuing my dream?
Yes, yes he would. But he wouldn't say it directly. He'd just buy a copy of the book, "let me" sign it, and keep it near the front of his bookshelf or on his dresser where he could see it everyday, because that's how my dad showed he cared.
My Dad, circa 1981 (?)
