I find myself dwelling on thoughts of my father today.
He and Mom divorced when I was very young, and my first memories of Dad come from him stopping in for weekly visitation rights.
I'm going to start off with the good I can remember from Dad.
I remember Sunday's being the day he would come over. We lived across from the train station and could watch from our second floor apartment for the train carrying him to arrive.
We would go to the local deli to get pickles from a barrel and for the Sunday paper which he would bring home and read cover to cover sitting on the toilet, much to the chagrin of everyone waiting to use the toilet.
Sometimes we went to the beach. I recall setting up bottles and smashing them with rocks, and making a boat out of a beer carrier.
We went to see Star Wars in theater in NYC. Where my sister loudly asked during the desert scenes, "DADDY CAN WE GO TO THAT BEACH SOMEDAY?" And later Empire Strikes back he would take us to see.
We had a standard spaghetti dinner (his favorite). And before dinner we went to the bakery where we got a freshly baked and cut loaf of bread...and cookies decorated like Charlie Brown's head.
I remember building a Star Wars like base out of a box a Tonka truck came in. With silver contact paper and electrical tape. I remember making a Hoth Snow Beast out of a Qpie doll, by gluing cotton on it.
I remember Dad taking us to see Buck Rogers in theaters and then lunch afterwards.
And that about ends my pleasant memories of my father.
And sadly I wish I could say the good memories were all solid good memories. But instead many of those are tainted by bad memories.
Waiting for Dad to get off the train to visit is was a warm feeling...until his visits went from weekly to bi-weekly, to tri-weekly, to monthly or less. All accompanied by the call from Mom to him begging him to come over and see us. And eventually watching my younger sister waiting by the window for hours after we were sure he wasn't coming only to be disappointed.
What visits there were, are punctuated with headlocks until we cried, or beatings because I put an elbow on the table...in all instances Mom would have to step in for it to be stopped.
Some of the last involvement out father had in out childhood were pretty damn cold.
One Christmas he promised both my sister and I bikes. Only to say he wasn't buying them. Only to have my Mother flip out on him, only to have his then girlfriend buy the bikes for us...because she felt sorry.
Another Christmas the year that Empire Strikes Back came out, he promised to get me the AT-AT...if you don't know what an AT-AT is shame on you go google it, but it was the hottest toy that year. At any rate we would bump into dear Dad in Kmart with one in his shopping cart...and his girlfriends kids firmly in hand the combination of both sent me crying into another aisle where I could hear Mom and Dad arguing it out...Dad never came to explain it to me or even make sure I was OK he just left. I would get that AT-AT...with a gift tag suspiciously in Mom's handwriting labeled 'Love Dad' (years later I would confirm from Mom Grandma bought it).
Now as an adult I see things a bit differently then as a hurt child I was at the time.
It takes two to fight and even though my experiences with Dad confirm the asshole status my Mother gave him, I realistically know from living with Mom she could be fairly bull headed on things so yes it takes two to fight. But of the two as a parent Mom was light years ahead of Dad. But still I can understand he was in his 20's with two kids...he freaked and left. I also understand that he had a right to move on and be happy.
All of this did not negate his responsibility to at least TRY to be a parent to us.
The final time I would actually see him, was when a rock came flying thru our window in the middle of the night showering us in broken glass. Neither of us was hurt miraculously but we were pretty damn scared...he had to be begged to come and temporarily patch the window up so the cold wouldn't come in the house, and when he finally came he refused to speak to either of us.
He would float into our lives later again when my sister was a teenager. Apparently she had contacted him. She was younger and likely didn't remember the bad times as well as I did. During this time he would tell her a series of lies and turn her against Mom and I...it also didn't help that she was a rebellious teen already. He stated that Mom kept him away from us. Promised her a better life, a car etc...she went with him forcing Mom to sign over custody never delivering on any of these things. And she would find out the hard way what a shitty guy he was when he actually hit her. She would eventually come back to us...but never once in this incident did he request to speak with me.
My final contact with him as of this writing, was when Mom passed away. I'm not sure why...maybe it was the rawness of my emotions or a misplaced sense of duty but I reached out to him via his wife who was on social media to connect him to let him know Mom had passed.
The response was an icy cold...'Ok...Thanks'
He didn't show for the funeral or viewings...I guess somehow I thought that maybe he would at least pay a final respect to her or come to console his children or maybe even just to prove her wrong considering he claimed she kept him from us. But he didn't show a few days after the funeral the funeral home called me asking if they could release a copy of the death certificate to him and his wife.
Its been suggested that I should have made him come to me at her grave to get it.
But at the time I was (and to some degree still am) an open wound on the subject of Mom's death. And here it was. The man who supposedly loved her, and us, he had been given a chance to see us to do right by his children and he had no interest in doing so. He had according to his story supposedly been kept away from us. And yet nothing had stood in his way from contacting us as adults. Nothing stopped him from poisoning my sisters mind as a troubled teen. And now finally she was dead...what stood in his way now? After I had reached out to him?
And the answer was...nothing.
Nothing stood in his way, and still...he had no interest in talking to me face to face or even voice to voice. In that split second I knew any thing he had to say would be untrue. Any feeling I was looking for was not there.
In the end I told the Home to give him a copy. I wanted it done. I had buried my Mom...and now...I buried my Dad...symbolically of course.
There is one final thing he can do for me and its not voluntary.
I say this with no malice or hate in my heart towards him, and I certainly don't wish him any ill, but when he dies...someone let me know, because having those paid days off from work is realistically the last thing...maybe the only thing he can do for me.
I won't go to his funeral, or make a scene or piss on his grave or any dramatics...I just will have time off from work.
