The Stories I Tell...
I got to Seattle on Saturday. The service was scheduled for the following Friday. I took an active role in shaping the service. My sister and I worked from 7 Am till midnight everyday. When was writing his obituary my sister said I made it seem that he led a colorful life. If fact he did.
One of our early decisions was to take resposibility for speaking about dad instead of leaving the task to the minister. We asked the minister to do the spiritual comfort part; I would speak of the themes of his life. I am the eldest. I have worked consciously to heal my relationship with him.
I shape who I am becoming by the stories I tell myself about others and my experiences. The stories I would have told about my dad are far different now than they would have been years ago. They are different than they would have been a couple of weeks ago.
My stories changed radically at least 4 times in the recent 30 years. The first was an evening lecture in which the speaker suggested that we choose our parents before we are born. I couldn't see why anyone, meaning me, could possbily choose to be born into a family where the dad drank and had such a temper as my did and where my mom would die when I was only 19. I stomped about inside my head in a rage. Eventually, the idea had appeal in that if I chose my parents and a board outline of my lessons then I wasn't a victim. It gave me a kind of power.
The second took place in New Mexico. My dad and stepmom were visiting and we were all at a neighbor's house for lunch. My dad and our friend Clint began discussing their time in the military and in WWII. I had never heard my dad speak of the war before or since. He was not sharing with me but I was allowed to overhear their conversation.
I knew dad had joined the navy under-aged as an escape from his family. He credits the navy with making him a man. As I heard the stories of discipline he went through I understood how he came to raise us in the way that he did. In a way we grew up in a boot camp. Understanding this gave me insight and I softened towards him to some degree. We were civil as before but I started to call more often.
Did I say dad had a temper and was irritable? There wasn't physical abuse, I was just afraid of him. That little girl fear dominated my interactions with him. The third story changing event came as Peggy and I drove from Flagstaff to Phoenix after homeoplathy class. I don't remember what in class prompted us, but we began swapping positive dad stories. She would tell one and that would spark me into a memory I had forgotten. I began remembering family vacations, father daughter breakfasts, fishing trips, and times when he was there for me. My pre-occupation with his tone and manner had hidden all the good times. Who knew?
The fourth shift happened just last week as we shifted through photos and stories getting ready for the service. I know people mellow as they age. Dad did. He also stopped drinking. My sister ran a daycare that dad visited. The kids had a couple of nicknames for my dad. One was "Silly Grandpa" and the other "Rudolph". Who was this person? I think I would have lost my head if I had ever even thought to call my dad either of these names. It was a whole different side I had never seen but could imagine. He was strict but loving with the grandchildren and even better with the great grandchildren. I started to see and remember my dad as a family man. It only took 56 years and his death to see it.
I have lots of stories now to illustrate 4 themes in his life that he taught by example: 1. Never quit, 2. live big and ride the waves, the ups and downs of life, don't seek the always placid waters, 3. be ahead of the times by seeing the potential and taking action, and 4. be a family man.
You know, if I was looking at a book of potential fathers and I saw dad's photo with the caption underneath saying irritable, tempermental, drinking problem, but never quits, lives big, is ahead of his time and a family man, I would choose dad. Knowing everything I know now, I am glad that I did!
One of our early decisions was to take resposibility for speaking about dad instead of leaving the task to the minister. We asked the minister to do the spiritual comfort part; I would speak of the themes of his life. I am the eldest. I have worked consciously to heal my relationship with him.
I shape who I am becoming by the stories I tell myself about others and my experiences. The stories I would have told about my dad are far different now than they would have been years ago. They are different than they would have been a couple of weeks ago.
My stories changed radically at least 4 times in the recent 30 years. The first was an evening lecture in which the speaker suggested that we choose our parents before we are born. I couldn't see why anyone, meaning me, could possbily choose to be born into a family where the dad drank and had such a temper as my did and where my mom would die when I was only 19. I stomped about inside my head in a rage. Eventually, the idea had appeal in that if I chose my parents and a board outline of my lessons then I wasn't a victim. It gave me a kind of power.
The second took place in New Mexico. My dad and stepmom were visiting and we were all at a neighbor's house for lunch. My dad and our friend Clint began discussing their time in the military and in WWII. I had never heard my dad speak of the war before or since. He was not sharing with me but I was allowed to overhear their conversation.
I knew dad had joined the navy under-aged as an escape from his family. He credits the navy with making him a man. As I heard the stories of discipline he went through I understood how he came to raise us in the way that he did. In a way we grew up in a boot camp. Understanding this gave me insight and I softened towards him to some degree. We were civil as before but I started to call more often.
Did I say dad had a temper and was irritable? There wasn't physical abuse, I was just afraid of him. That little girl fear dominated my interactions with him. The third story changing event came as Peggy and I drove from Flagstaff to Phoenix after homeoplathy class. I don't remember what in class prompted us, but we began swapping positive dad stories. She would tell one and that would spark me into a memory I had forgotten. I began remembering family vacations, father daughter breakfasts, fishing trips, and times when he was there for me. My pre-occupation with his tone and manner had hidden all the good times. Who knew?
The fourth shift happened just last week as we shifted through photos and stories getting ready for the service. I know people mellow as they age. Dad did. He also stopped drinking. My sister ran a daycare that dad visited. The kids had a couple of nicknames for my dad. One was "Silly Grandpa" and the other "Rudolph". Who was this person? I think I would have lost my head if I had ever even thought to call my dad either of these names. It was a whole different side I had never seen but could imagine. He was strict but loving with the grandchildren and even better with the great grandchildren. I started to see and remember my dad as a family man. It only took 56 years and his death to see it.
I have lots of stories now to illustrate 4 themes in his life that he taught by example: 1. Never quit, 2. live big and ride the waves, the ups and downs of life, don't seek the always placid waters, 3. be ahead of the times by seeing the potential and taking action, and 4. be a family man.
You know, if I was looking at a book of potential fathers and I saw dad's photo with the caption underneath saying irritable, tempermental, drinking problem, but never quits, lives big, is ahead of his time and a family man, I would choose dad. Knowing everything I know now, I am glad that I did!
posted by Patricia @ 9:16 PM
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