Fathers

I Love You, Dad!
By Joseph Walther

The date was Monday, April 30, 1956. I was hurtling out of control towards a highly anticipated rendezvous with my 15th birthday on June 18th. Like most pimple faced, skinny, self-professed worldly experts of my era, birthdays were important. The fifteenth birthday was significant because it put me ever closer to the ultimate symbol of social independence: a driver’s license.

Back then, my world was not much more than a circle. Its radius was about eight miles. And like all circles, it revolved perpetually around its center, which I vividly remember as ME. Birthdays, spending money, beach trips, carnivals, friends with their own cars, smoking, presents, and that rare but ever-critical free slow dance grope of Lu Lu Lovely were all GOOD.

Life however, was not ALL fun. I had to bear many crosses in those days. My parents were the most unreasonable people on earth. They would not even consider allowing me to go out, on a school night. In fact, my social life did not even register on their concern meter. My dad put it quite eloquently when he explained, “You’re just a young snot going to school.” Talk about your unreasonable brutes!

They checked my homework. Every night! If I didn’t have any homework, they provided me with some. And it was always a lot more, and much more difficult than what the teachers assigned. If I had a test coming up at school, they’d always give me their own test first. I thought this particularly unreasonable because the “real” test was always much easier than theirs. Geez, what hopeless dweebs.

Throughout the course of his life, my dad never earned more than $6,000 a year, and that included overtime. Even though I was embarrassed to tears over the clothes they bought me, they were quality and clean. My mother didn’t believe in handing me a menu at suppertime, either. I ate what she fixed. If I didn’t like it, I was the one with the problem, not her. Can you believe this kind of crap?

They would regularly remind me that money did not grow on trees. I remember in vivid detail, that bread was $0.18 a loaf; milk was $0.97 a gallon; eggs were $0.81 a dozen; gas was $0.30 a gallon; and that the minimum wage was $1.00 an hour. I remember how loudly my mother complained when first class postage stamps went up to $0.03. I also recall my dad’s beaming smile when he told my mother that the house that HE paid $4,600 for in 1948 was worth $17,800 in 1955.

Well, I knew that money didn’t grow on trees. I knew, factually, that it appeared magically inside of my father’s wallet. Even though I was never sure how it actually happened, I was pretty confident that there was a link between him leaving the house early each morning and coming back late at night six days out of every seven.

I could never have actually hated my parents; but they were, after all, parents. In my 15-year old mind they were socially obsolete, chronologically almost dead, and intellectually devoid of anything near a real brain. Even though I knew in my heart of hearts that they worked hard, were proud of me beyond verbal description, and loved me more than themselves, I took it all for granted. I was much too busy trying to “educate” them in the world’s “modern” ways. Fifteen year olds do this better than anyone else. It has always been and always will be, par for the course.

On April 30, 1956 at 2:15 PM, a runner took me from the classroom to Father Dukhart’s office. He was the rector of the school I was attending at the time. I sat on a small sofa to side of his desk. He came around, sat next to me, and told me that he had some awful news. “Your daddy was in an automobile accident. He was killed.” He then wrapped his arms around me and told me that it was ok to cry. But I couldn’t. Men just didn’t do that.

I would never be the same, but it didn’t take long for me to realize how much I loved my father. His sudden death taught me that life, no matter how carefree, happy, beautiful, hopeful, and forever fulfilling it could be, in less than a few seconds, it could turn into a steaming pile of crap.

Today is Fathers’ Day. It is also my birthday. I have come a long way from that 15 year-old skinny, self-absorbed kid. Not a single day, since that awful April event back in 1956, has passed that I have not thought about him at least once. Every Fathers’ Day since his death, I still feel his essence and see his image in my mind’s eye and I wish him a happy Father’s Day. I miss him more than I can describe. Oh, yes, real men are not ashamed to cry, either.

Have a great week. I’ll be baaaaak!

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Send your comments. Just click here.