Neither of my older brothers nor I have much in the way of fond memories of our father. My brothers are 11 and 12 years older than I, and they tell me that when I was three years old I was so terrified of him that on the rare occasions he would come home I ran out into the woods behind our house and hid. They had to come out and find me.
My brothers remember waking up to the sounds of drunken men brawling in the living room -- my father and the husband of some woman. It’s pretty obvious why someone else’s husband would be trying to kick my father’s ass. He was notorious for his affairs. He even lost his job at a women’s college in South Carolina for having an affair with his student(s). I learned in my adult years that my mother engaged in revenge affairs, which is so very sad to me. If you must have an affair, it should at least be a “love” affair. But they had a sad and self-destructive marriage.
My father scored abysmally low not only as a husband but also a father. If he rarely did anything for my mother, he never did anything for us. My father was a musician and you’d think he would have at least been somewhat interested in my two brothers, who were members of one of the best high school marching bands in the country. In fact, the older of the two was so good, that he got a full scholarship to Eastman School of Music -- a good thing since the only way he’d be going to college was if it was fully paid for by someone other than my father. My other brother wound up playing trombone in the prestigious Navy Band. Did my father ever once see them perform? No. Not even when the older one became the youngest professional symphony tuba player in the U.S.
My father was both abusive and stingy. I was three when he finally split -- a relief for all of us. My mother at first didn’t even bother trying to get child support. She took care of us herself. It wasn’t until later after he received an inheritance from his wealthy parents, that my mom took him to court. She won a whopping 75 dollars a month, and for the next week or so, she was scared and wouldn’t answer the phone and kept the door locked. When my brother who was at Eastman needed money for food, he made the mistake of borrowing fifty dollars from my father -- the first and only time that happened. My dad hounded him relentlessly for the money almost immediately after he’d given it to him. Eventually they "disowned" each other. When my father, as a very old man, was asked how many children he had, he could only think of my other brother. The first one and I didn't exist for him.
Here’s the list of the things my father gave to me over the years: a child’s size lounge chair when I was 7, two books he no longer wanted when I was around 15, a check for $75 when I turned 17 along with a horrible letter excoriating me for my recently acquired drug addiction (gee, Dad, really?) and two ratty little stuffed lions for my daughter when she was a baby. He never saw me in any of my plays or ballet performances. We never did anything together.
However, as an adult I tried to create some kind of relationship with him. My brothers did, too. Whenever we would see him, he would make some sort of reference to our inheritance. “When I die, whatever I have goes to you three children,” he said over and over again. I figured he was trying to atone for the fact he never gave us anything when we were kids.
Of course, even if atoning for his stingy treatment of his children had been his intention, he was completely senile in his last few years. Blind, too, which somehow seemed fitting. So we were disappointed but not surprised when upon his death everything he had (which was not all that much) went to his widow. We were more surprised when she would not even allow us the smallest token -- a book or some other memento. When I was younger and knew I wanted to be a writer, I remember gazing over my father’s extensive library longingly during my rare visits, afraid to ask for one.
But the biggest surprise of all came at his memorial service. The man who sat at the piano and played during the service wept copious tears as he played. He was about my age or maybe a little older. My brothers and I wondered who he was? After the service, we mingled with the guests downstairs. Several of them had been friends of both our parents. There were pictures posted of my dad in his jazz combo. He looked all cool with his black goatee and sideburns. He could have been one of the beats. I felt such a sense of loss that I had been so shut out of his life.
Then the man who had been playing the piano came up to us and, after explaining that my dad had been his piano teacher for many years, said, “He was such a wonderful man. He was like a father to me, and he told me I was like a son to him.” My brothers and I stood there speechless.
I finally stammered, “I’m glad he had that experience with someone.”
Then he shared the “amusing” story of how my dad had given him a copy of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway (one of my favorite books!) and wanted to discuss it with him, but this man wasn’t much for literature and I suppose had felt inadequate to the task. But no matter, Dad and his wife Mary had given the mournful piano student several hundred books they no longer had room for. He hadn’t known what to do with them so he gave them to the library.
My brothers and I turned away from the man. We were a bitter three, and now we understood how my mother must have felt that one time she was taking my brothers to the beach and she looked over at a car next to her at the stop light. There was my father with another woman and her children, heading to the beach.
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Paula Torrey Mamuscia
Erica K
Lizz Schumer
Firechick
Snowden
Maureen J Andrade
Salon.com
Comments
Maybe now that you're on the cover you'll get readers. I hope so. Someone said of my latest post about my father that they wished they could reach back in time and give the boy I was then a hug. That's the way I feel about you right now. You have touched my heart.
I once was telling a new friend, very matter-of-factly, the things my dad said and did over time that proved he was a straight-up jerk. After about a minute or so of this, with him asking a few questions, the guy across the campfire from us suddenly blurted out, "God damn! I'm going to go home, hug my dad and tell him I love him!" I guess what he heard me say led him to believe that his dad wasn't so bad.
That's what your piece did for me. It made me feel, for the first time in over 12 years, that maybe I could -- well, not HUG -- at least tell my dad I could forgive him and his selfish ways. I'm sure the feeling will pass.
Your spare and unemotional prose -- that paints a vivid and stark tale -- is the second one in a day that has brought tears to my eyes. Well written and well told, indeed.
--r--
my mother had not only a neglectful father by an abusive one who "almost" incested her and her two two sisters. while they never forgave him his transgressions, my mother did since she felt the burden of hate was too great, and she had the best life of all three by far.
i've seen that pattern frequently.
Good job and thank you.