My Old Man

On this, the occasion of my father's birthday, I often reflect on all the mighty and wonderful things that he did, and all the things that he gave me: most notably my sense of humor and a part that begins somewhere near the back of my head and spans most of the top of my skull. Humor and hair were not the only gifts he ever gave me, but he did win the "Get Out Early" sweepstakes. When my dad died sixteen years ago, just a couple weeks after his sixty-first birthday, he left a lot of unfinished business behind.
I understand that it is generally considered in poor taste to speak ill of the dead, especially when discussing the paterfamilias. But good taste was not one of the attributes that my father passed along to me. He was the funny one. He was the one who dragged us all around the neighborhood on our sleds behind the big Dodge station wagon. It was my mother who dealt with all the soggy clothes and shivering children when they finally came back inside. He was the one who gave his three boys a pat on the back when they deserved it, but it was my mom who was given the wooden spoon to paddle our backsides when we deserved that. I wouldn't say that my father avoided heavy lifting, but I know that he much preferred the happy, carefree times. Not surprising, considering he was human and all.
But as I grow older, and start passing milestones that my father passed a quarter century ago, I find myself wondering about the choices my dad made. He was coming up on what should have been his victory lap. All three of his sons were grown and moved out of the house, heading off on trajectories that would find them making their own families and fashioning homes and traditions that echoed the ones he helped instill. Instead, he split. He left my mom, and went off to start fresh. This wouldn't have been quite as objectionable if he had actually done something courageous and new. Instead, he continued to hang around the periphery of our family, continuing to contact our mother without ever giving her the space and time to adjust to life as separate individuals. He wanted all the connection that their years together allowed without the commitment.
At the time, I made all kinds of excuses for him. I couldn't understand why he was leaving, but since he hadn't gone very far, it didn't seem so bad. Now that I'm a husband and father myself, I can see how confounding the choices he made were for so many around him. When he left for good, after the plane crash took him away forever, we all set about grieving the man who had gone away years before. I miss him today, but now I can see why. And why not.