12/21/4 - Outlet-Mall to Home

I realize that it isn’t a Sunday in the middle of June. And with only a few days til Christmas, I guess this must seem a strange thing to say, so I’ll explain.

On the way home from some last-minute shopping with my friend Rick Moody, we started talking about our fathers. How every year they’d get into the garage and unpack the Christmas lights and hang them in bitter cold, shovel snow out of the driveway, pack all of us kids into the car for the tour of lights on our street, how they’d tell us in that fatherly tone that we would not open a single-present, under any circumstances, until Christmas morning. It seems to me now that all of this was done without much complaint or excitability; unlike Rick and me, who were totally pissed and worn out from our relatively simple shopping-trip to an outlet-mall.

Fathers use acronyms. Fathers refold maps; fathers like to appear as though they have infallible knowledge of direct routes between any two points. Fathers are purveyors of ethics.

My dad was a salesman and never appeared to be quite comfortable at home to me. I always thought he didn’t really appear in my life until I was seven. He was in-residence before that - the early-years, sure - but in a way more erratic than fatherly. I always supposed he flourished at his office but when he got home, he merely made his way around the premises. His most frequent expression was one of furrowed skepticism. He dressed casually but never sloppily. My dad wore Top-Siders and cable-knit sweaters and tweed jackets with patches on the elbows. He had thinning hair and was slim. He was, compared to me, very large. He was a behemoth. My childhood interest in dinosaurs—in the T. Rex or the Pterodactyl—was really a metaphorical interest in dads. My dad dispensed incontrovertible orders. And we executed these orders. But my father was also a cipher to me, a mystery, an enigma.

Fathers may offer standard-issue praise, such as “Attaboy!” “Stick with it!” or “Way to go!” Fathers are able to dispense paternal wisdom even in a semiconscious or unconscious state. Fathers dispense advice that they spurned themselves.

My dad hated noise. The noise of kids, the footsteps of kids, herds of kids. He had immediately married right out of school, spawned his first child ten months after marrying, two more by the time he was twenty-six. He had no idea how he was going to pay. He had no idea how he was going get us through college, how to manage teenage rebellions or any of the unpredictable adolescent stuff. The noise of kids made my dad crazy because he was not actually watching football on TV, or the news, or whatever; my dad feigned watching TV. He was actually quietly brooding about how he was going to pay. Up on the second floor of our house, I would be throwing a pile of shoes and toys, one by one, at my brother and he would be crouched and screaming behind a desk, when suddenly we would hear the sound of my father’s voice in the stairwell, “What the hell is going on up there?” And we would fall into our brief, shameful silence, an anxious silence so familiar as to have preceded our very births.

Fathers appear to us without condition if only we can interpret their complicated language. Fathers move over expanses of time, across abysses of generations; fathers move across impediments, opening out, softening, becoming unguarded, giving away the rules of fathers to younger, angrier men; fathers, over time, become attentive and kind, regretful and warm, sensitive and even, gentle.

He was a dad: clocking in and out, getting vested in the pension-plan, taking the car to the garage for repairs, catching the 5:02, showing me how to throw a baseball, putting up Christmas lights, and eventually, moving somewhere else and writing the child-support checks.
So, why was I stunned this week when he waxed artistic, literary-truth over the phone of Melville, Dickens, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy? Turns out, Dad was a Lit-Major with hopes and dreams way-back when.
Who knew?
“You’re a good writer Tom, keep it up,” he said.
“Thanks Dad,” I told him.
“Sure Tom…it’s true. I sure wish your Grandfather had said that to me.”

The resistance to fathers is honorific, and resistance to fathers is always the last lesson in the instruction of fathers. Fatherhood knows that it is honored by its offspring’s contempt.

A whole sequence of fathers looking backwards for answers, ultimately finding that the most impossible father, with the most draconian set of regulations, was not in a living-room preparing to lecture us, but cradled inside of us and impossible to dislodge.
Happy Father’s Day/Merry Christmas Dad.
-Tom