So why are they such indistinct hieing thoughts and images of happiness, and nothing cementing?
It makes me wonder sometimes if there are things I am avoiding, if there are realizations I don’t want to face… but I will not travel that path today… Instead I’m going to let this entry take me where it will, and hope to uncover some happier memories along the way.
No promises.
You know what I remember about my dad that I bring back to mind as some of the most pleasant times? Cooking in the kitchen…
I remember he would sing (hymnals, usually), and cook, and whatever else he was tending to while in there…
He used to make scrambled eggs and brains. I do believe he tried to convince me they were actual brains, for some time, but I think I just could not bear to conceive this. I mean, I don’t think I had anything against it, I’m a very pronounced omnivore (well, only as a warning to the many vegans who have tried to preach at me), and well… I was always intrigued by things that bothered other people… which eating brains seems to rate on that list.
I still remember the texture to it, the scrambled eggs and brains. And I did come to find out that they are indeed, brains. Pig brains.
Something random, but something I never voiced before: Elvis reminds me of my dad. It’s not that they resembled each other (though my dad did once have that dark hair and pale eye thing going on, but didn’t they a lot of them when you look back at the black and white pictures?)… I think it’s the passion for song (and hymnals), and a spirit of a long time past. I mean, it just one of those things that if I hear of Elvis and I think of my dad… and I don’t recall if he even liked him much (I know my mum had some of his albums on vinyl), though he did tell me a story once about crashing a party that Elvis was having…
The story with meeting Elvis, as I remember, is Dad and his friends took their motorcycles up to a party that Elvis was having. Apparently they were not going to be able to get in, as it was pretty tightly guarded, but it goes that Elvis saw them and shared an appreciation for motorcycles like the ones that Dad and his friends had rode up on… and personally said they could stay.
I remember I heard plenty of stories the summer before my dad died. I’d wait for him to come home from work (by now he just gave up on bitching about me being up late because I was always up late), we would watch the A-Team (it was one of the very few common interest I shared with my dad), and we would talk for awhile.
I don’t know if I ever truly learned as much then, when they were told to me, as I learned later in life when things made more sense.
My sister, Amanda, pointed out how sometimes the view of one’s parents can be tainted. You see out of small eyes that can only relate to child emotions, and this sometimes carries on in our memories even as we get older. I think it’s hard to truly grappled the realities of what’s happening or why, there are components we don’t see or can’t understand.Most children will not know the struggle of paying bills, the aches of an aging body, the mindless working of dead-end jobs just so that you could eat and provide for a family… We can’t truly interpret the space that people might need, the desire to actually have something at the end of the day that we can call our own, the desire for a change or a break, or the fact that sometimes we fall in and out of love with people and things… Depression, anxiety, obsessions, lust, betrayal, it’s all so much more complex than I think an average child can associate with. I don’t think children will understand the several personal factors that make up the humans they call parents (or guardians)… not when they are young, at least… and sometimes never.
I remember hearing the stories, but the emotions that might have been connected didn’t register with me… Even at 17 years old, the true content was lost on me.
This being said: My dad was a storyteller.
I remember that my dad was supposedly married twice before my mum. The first was a very brief fling, I think either when my dad was in the Navy still, or right when he was getting out of service… he said it was annulled by the parents (as she was underage or something come a different state? It doesn’t make sense in my head anymore, like it did once). That is what I remember of that story, mind you I haven’t a superhuman memory and I prone to the erosion of time.
Then I know he was also married a woman named Sandra. I don’t remember much about that, other than he’d told me he married her out of pity. I remember a picture of her among the photo albums, I remember thinking she was pretty, and that she had a daughter (as far as I remember, I was assured it was not a step-sister).
Another story I remember was about him dating a beauty pageant winner. I want to say it was Miss Florida, or Miss America… or something of the sort. The way I remember it is he was dating her at the time and she was killed when something happened while a neighbour cleaned his gun in the apartment over.
My dad painted a very varied and exciting life when he told his stories. From meeting and arm wrestling celebrities, to inventing a (now popular) manoeuvre in (American) football, to wresting alongside Dusty Rhodes, to being a limo driver for Michael Jackson, to having very rare blood type and being a donor to save someone’s life, to driving a pace car for NASCAR…
I’ve always wondered about the validity of these stories (and how much of it is my filtering), and if they were not entirely factual why he might tell them to us as children. Honestly, we would have been in awe of him no matter how boring or ordinary his life might have been… because we loved and respected him.
It’s such a thing to look back at, because I know I have lost the ability to learn who my dad is truly other than through hearsay (and honestly, my mum isn’t anywhere near reliable for memories).
I know now how being a parent doesn’t make you suddenly amazing or honest, or even respectable in some cases.
It took me awhile to see that my mum and dad were real humans, with emotions, with a past, with flaws, with dreams and hopes, and with a soul all their own…
They are not some entity like figure, whose sole purpose is to tend and protect you (or spoil your mischief and fun, if that may be the case)… Their guidance and choices are prone to as much failing as our is, they don’t know everything… and they, too, are creatures evolving through time (hopefully towards a greater desire or understanding).
I think some of his stories weren't true, but maybe he told them to us because he always wanted to think he had a brilliant life. So, he told us things that would amuse us, maybe so we wouldn't see his flaws.
ReplyDeleteElvis reminded me of dad sometimes, especially just the way they would carry themselves sometimes.
Thank you for sharing all these memories. :)
I hope you are able to find some more happy memories, that all the memories that come up aren't just sad.
I think you and Dad despite sometimes boring times in your life, you are both awesome people, and you bring a lot of happiness into people's lives regardless if you are doing something that seems normal to other people.