Father's Day

It's been over eight years since my father passed away.  It's been over ten since my mother passed away.

Every day I feel their absence.  But at the same time, every day I rejoice that I had them for parents as they did an amazing job.  My childhood was one full of love, attention, curiosity, and fun.

Last spring we had a psychologist talk to our staff about childhood trauma and mental health.  He mentioned the massive and important ACE study.  That shows the importance of having a healthy, supportive family structure on your long term success and even survival.

Then he asked us what group of Americans suffered most from PTSD.

Returning soldiers, was my initial thought.

Nope.

Police officers?

Nope.

Medical staff?

Nope.

Then who?

Children.

I was shocked.  And horrified.

Then he went on to explain how as a child seeing alcoholism, diverse, abuse, neglect, bullying . . . all left trauma on the brains of children.

Then he asked the staff how many had a parent who was an alcoholic.  Some hands went up.

Then he asked us how many came from divorce.  More hands went up.

Abuse?  A few more hands went up.

When I looked around, I was amazed that I was one of the few teachers who didn't have his hand in the air!

I couldn't imagine my parents getting a divorce. I mean I never even saw them fight.  Sure they got angry at each other . . . I recall the time my father was shaking up a can of grapefruit juice and the tin can slipped from his hand, flew all the way across our kitchen, and landed right on my mother's little toe!

Then I was instantly transported back in time 35 years to my childhood home in Red Lake Falls.  Some of my friends were going to the lake with their dads.  They looked so cool loading the cases of beer and fishing supplies into the back of their dads' trucks.  I so wanted to go with them.  One of my friends' mom's said I could go to the lake if my parents let me.

I dashed home and asked Dad, who was sitting on our porch waiting for mom to finish making breakfast.

"Sorry," he said.  "But we will be heading out to the farm today."

It was at this moment that I thought I had the most boring parents ever.

And I probably did.

But looking at many of my colleagues who had come from homes where alcoholism, abuse, and divorce occurred, I was blessed to have the most boring parents on earth.

We did go out to the farm.  My dad herded and doctored the sheep and then worked in the field.  I rode on the tractor for awhile.  Then I climbed a tree and made a sword from a plank from a snow fence.  Best of all, Dad unearthed some old fireworks and we lit them off in the farm yard before we left.  I forgot all about the lake and fishing.

The thing that was amazing about my dad was that he was kind of like the neighborhood dad.  I had many friends whose dads worked construction and were often gone.  I had another friend whose dad was an abusive drunk.

I have many memories of Dad loading for or five of us in the back of his truck and hauling us out to the farm (not exactly legal now) or taking us all down the hill in front of our house to play an impromptu game of baseball.

Maybe the most important lesson dad ever taught me was on one Fourth of July.

We went out to the farm to light of fireworks.

Now, let me preface this with this info - I loved the Fourth of July.  It was one of two times we actually got to go to one of my favorite places on earth (Grand Forks . . . fireworks were illegal in MN back then).  I would take my cache of fireworks and stack and re-stack and re-re-stack them in my room, just imagining what it would be like to light them all off.

I think that last part was probably more fun than blowing them off on the Fourth.

Well, Dad  loaded me up in the truck.  Since one of my friends was over, we will call him George, Dad invited him a long too.

We had an amazing time lighting the fireworks off.  Since I was probably 7 at the time, I wasn't too keen on evenly distributing the fireworks with George - whose father I never actually met, though he and his sister lived alone with him.  It didn't dawn on me that George didn't have any fireworks.

But this is where my dad showed how amazing he was, for he consciously made sure George had his share of my share of fireworks to light off so he never felt neglected.

I was saving my massive triple decker bomb for last.  It was the crown jewel of my collection.  Every time I stacked and re-stacked and re-re-stacked my cache of fireworks, this sucker was always the center of each stack.

While I was busy lighting off the last Roman candle, Dad handed George a punk and told him that he could light the fuse on the triple decker bomb.

When I returned to the pick up, I saw George gleefully headed over to the triple decker.

I was so hurt, I could hardly speak.

Dad just held me and let me cry and kick and wale all I wanted.

I pouted all the way home.  The ride home was silent, except for George who kept talking about how cool that triple decker bomb had been.

We dropped George off at his dark house.  Dad waited for him to get inside.  Then we saw the light from the kitchen come on as it illuminated the blankets that were slung over the windows in place of shades.

I don't remember my dad's exact words.  I remember their tone though, they were calm and patient, just like my dad.  He explained how George didn't have a dad in his life who provided fireworks for him and who spent a lot of time with him.  Furthermore, George didn't have a mom in his life who would have supper ready for him when he got home.  It was at that point, that I began to consider what meal Mom would have hot and ready for us as we walked in.  Then I remember one thing I loved about George's house: we could eat cereal any time we wanted.  In fact, that sometimes was all George had to eat.

I remember Dad driving by our house of third street and going across town to the north side.  Dad drove by The Spot (a bar in town).  He pointed to the car George's father drove that was pulled up outside of the bar.  The point was made without him having to really say a word: I had a dad who chose to take his kids out to the farm to light of fireworks.  George had a dad who chose to spend his time at The Spot.  I should be thankful for my dad's choice.  And I was.

Then we went home.  As we passed the court house, he explained that he wanted George to light off that firework because he knew he didn't have any fireworks of his own.

I think that was maybe the first time in my life I experienced empathy.  Suddenly, I felt so ashamed for being angry and jealous.

That was the greatest gift my father could have ever given me.  Even though at the time it felt like he betrayed me!

I hope I can teach Kenzie and Cash lessons like that some day.