I am 32.5 today; he was 68 eight years ago
Posted on | July 26, 2010 | 18 Comments
I remember the way the turkey vultures circled in the blue, blue sky, and the way the light moved across his room, casting the shadows from the paned windows, the cherry tree, the fence, across the pale wall. I was a different version of myself then. Twenty-four, living with T. in a two-floor rental by a hot pink liquor store in a crappy neighborhood in Connecticut. I was in my second year as a teacher in a charter school where cops would chase guys across the parking lot, guns drawn (drugs) and the Long Island Sound was two blocks from the school. T. and I had just gotten a dog; we’d walk him in the evenings to a graveyard down the street from our house. Everything already felt like it was at stake. I had no idea.
I’d started my first master’s program that summer; a master’s in Education. I remember exactly where I was sitting when I got the call: on a boulder in a field in New Hampshire. Above me, the full moon hanging low and round, and the air was sweet and heavy with the scent of blackberries and newly turned earth.
I flew home the next day. Home to the place that I still associated with that word. My childhood home: the 6 acres of hilly Northern California land where I’d broken my arm, become a teenager, and yelled fuck you at my father, then ran out the door and down the hard-packed path to the barn, to the hill beyond where I always went in sadness. I was 16 when that happened, and he was strict in an archaic sense of that word: he expected me home by 10pm until I graduated; thought women looked best in dresses; counted on my mother and sisters and me to cook and generally keep the place presentable. I don’t remember the fight, save for the fact that he followed me and said: what if I’d left and those had been the very last words you said? (He was leaving for a trip that afternoon.)
I am painting the wrong kind of picture. He was formidable and peculiar to be sure. He was stubborn, foolish, and sometimes clueless (particularly about teenage girls and their boyfriends.) But he was also wise, funny, astounding, tender, and proud of me.
He admitted this before he died: I have no idea why I was so strict with you three.
Maybe in part because his father was a Lutheran minister; because he was one of nine. His own childhood was marked by obedience and hard work; berry picking to make the family budget, a paper route with a too-big bike before the age of 9. As a result he parented peripherally, often illogically. He didn’t have much of a model. I’m not sure if this is a reasonable excuse. Who would I be now, if I had had more freedoms then, less boundaries, more team sports, less time spent doing work to earn free time?
I resented him at 16, certainly, but only with the kind of fleeting resentment that most teenager have for their parents. It didn’t last. And even through those rocky years, mostly, I adored him. Adored the way he could fix anything; and also the way we could talk.
He opened up the world to me, with his ideas. He shone the flashlight, and let me take the lead. He asked me questions, then listened, and let me feel my way to my own truth. Up late, we’d sink in deep into conversations about Aristotle, Goethe, Steiner, Da Vinci, Saint John. He encouraged me to take risks too, to climb tall trees; to lie at the edge of cliffs and look far down; to sit on the peak of the roof and watch the sky.
I quit the program: knowing the rest of my summer would be utterly unfathomable, uncharted, disorienting. I wasn’t wrong. I lost my north star, my childhood home, my sense of who I had valued myself most to be: my father’s daughter. I’d spent my teenage years bucking up against his antiquated parameters and steep expectations, sure, yet as a result I’d become someone who felt confident with words and tools because of all the hours, years, spent by his side in dialogue, in partnership, his shadow, his helper. He’d taught me to use a weed cutter and a chain saw; to operate the table saw; use a hatchet, an ax, a maul; to drive in nails with a hammer, straight and true.
I was with him when he died today, eight years ago, on my half birthday. I secretly loved that he died the 26th; a day that we could share. It felt then as it was our final link; a secret handshake; a promise that I meant everything to him the same way he meant everything to me.
Damn.
How I wish it didn’t happened that way at all. How I wish that he were alive still; that he could spend time with his first grandson, my Bean, who is so like him. That we could still spend nights up late, talking, or afternoons discussing the universe over Lipton tea and toast with cheese.
I look at Bean and see my father as a child. He has the same startling intellect; the same way with observation, with words, with plans. He understands numbers and machinery as effortlessly as if he came into this world knowing. And just like my dad, he’s exquisitely sensitive. Just the same: he’s smitten with hay fever; he wonders about god; he builds elaborate machines with Legos; he handles a carving knife with more grace and skill than most ten year olds, even though he’s only 5.
I wonder what grandchildren would have done for my father. Softened his edges, maybe? Let him slow down, linger, and enjoy without the intensity he brought to every interaction. Everything was a full-on discussion, an inquiry, a puzzle to be solved. Again, so like my son.
So like me too.
The things we take from our parents; the things we borrow, steal, keep unaware. The habits we hold on to, the ways we think, wonder, see the world. So much of who we are is shaped from what we received, or didn’t, from the people who raised us, who gave us love or failed in this enormous way.
I think of this now as I watch both my boys. My second, so like T. Sunshine, pure sunshine. Laughter always, smiles always. He’s action and play and physical finesse. He’s an athlete already, coordinated, sure footed, in love with games: with playing ball and peekaboo and hide and seek.
I didn’t mean to arrive here, at this wonderment at my sons. I meant to say: it’s my half birthday today. 32.5 and I’m at the brink of possibly going again to school, for the third time (remember, Sprout arrived on the scene unexpecedly the second time I enrolled?)
The past six months have been the best, and the hardest, and the most rewarding. I can only gape, wide-mouthed, at what the next six months will bring; nevermind the next eight years.
Who will I be when who I am now is my former self by nearly a decade?
Tell me: who will you be?
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18 Responses to “I am 32.5 today; he was 68 eight years ago”
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I am Christina Rosalie
Hello. I'm so happy you've stopped by!
I am a multimedia storyteller, digital strategist, idea starter, stalker of wonder, finder of four leaf clovers, MFA graduate student, and mama of boys. My first book,
will be published by SKIRT! Books in September, 2012.
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July 26th, 2010 @ 4:34 pm
I read every single post you put up…within minutes, sometimes, but rarely comment. The beauty of this entry compelled me to, though. Just wanted you to know that your words moved me.
xoxo.
July 26th, 2010 @ 4:59 pm
I cried through this entire entry, Christina. A beautiful, heartbreaking and true post. You have captured so much of what i feel when I think about my own father now that I’m a mother.
July 26th, 2010 @ 7:09 pm
Thinking about you today. I think your father would have adored your boys, and they would have adored him too. I am so sorry he isn’t around for them, or for you, or even for him. Sending hugs…
Beautiful words as well, Christina.
xo
July 26th, 2010 @ 9:28 pm
Christina: Really so beautiful. Thank you for writing and sharing.
L
July 26th, 2010 @ 11:01 pm
i still have both my parents but that is very moving!
July 26th, 2010 @ 11:24 pm
I love reading what you write. Your dad was so handsome. He sounds like an excellent father to have had.
July 27th, 2010 @ 3:04 am
“The things we take from our parents; the things we borrow, steal, keep unaware.”
oh your words. they get me. i know you know this.
happy half birthday to you my friend.
July 27th, 2010 @ 3:27 am
Damn, Christina. You just get better and better. Like fine wine? “He shone the flashlight, and let me take the lead.” …wouldn’t it be wonderful if all parents had that ability? I hope I can provide HALF of that for my children.
July 27th, 2010 @ 7:00 am
Oh Christina, I agree with Lizardek, you get better and better. What a wonderful piece of writing in ways that felt natural and entirely surprised me.
I remember your fathers strictness SO well as you know, and his awkwardness, seriousness. I also remember equally well your love for him, respect and awe of him, how I would come over to pick you up and find you deep in conversation with him on a Saturday afternoon, perched on the edge of the couch by his desk or chair.
I loved spending time at your house, the structure and intellectual conversations felt good compared to the lack of boundaries and ideas at my house.
I have been soul searching about why I’m in a Ph.D. program, what I’m working towards, who I was when I decided it’s what I wanted to do. You inspire me to write about my 20s, those years after college, what I thought about myself, my life, the world…
July 27th, 2010 @ 7:43 am
Wow. This was really touching.
July 27th, 2010 @ 10:35 am
Oh… That took my breath away. Thank you so much for sharing that. It really brings to the forefront my awkward relationship with my dad. He is all about his family, always has been. I have no idea why he and I are so…awkward together. It bothers me…and your post is for me a notice that I had better make some changes if I don’t want to always remember the strain. Apparently we were broke when my brother & I were little but all I remember are toys & camping & adventures. My dad worked two jobs so my mom could stay home with us. She got a part-time job when we were in elementary school, & eventually worked full-time. They both did everything for us-worked opposite schedules, took us on fantastically fun (& free, I guess) outings. My mom was 27 with a 2 year-old (me) & a newborn (little brother) and a husband in the hospital for 3 months with pericarditis…and her parents weren’t really helpful. Can’t imagine. My dad got lad off for 18 months in the seventies. We never knew the difference. We had a happy family. (In fact, we only heard them argue once…& we were so freaked out! We cried until they both came in our room to make it better.) They had a close knit group of friends who I now know would drop off bags of groceries while we were gone, or envelopes with money. One winter another family was in financial need & I remember my parents asking how we felt about not having so many Christmas presents so we could help out some other kids. They didn’t really even need to talk it over with us-I remember that it wasn’t even a big deal. Like, “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t that be okay?” I guess that’s how we experienced “The things we take from our parents; the things we borrow, steal, keep unaware.” I’m a lot like him…and my mom. I totally see them in me. So why am I so at ease with my mom & not my dad? Maybe his sacrifices for our family prevented he & I from developing that easy relationship that I had the opportunity to develop with my mom. That sorta sucks, huh? In 10 years, at 56 with an almost 15 year-old & a 12 year-old…I hope I’m more balanced. I hope there is more order & routine, and that I have some time for just me as my sons are at a more independent point in their lives. I also hope that parts of me I see in them make me feel proud. (Is this too long & rambling? Sorry! :> )
July 27th, 2010 @ 5:13 pm
This post is so beautiful. I’m reading it at work and trying to hold back the tears. I have a similar relationship with my father, we’re so similar that sometimes the slightest difference seems jarring. I think I’ll call him tonight and tell him how much he means to me… thank you.
July 27th, 2010 @ 7:44 pm
My father is a selfish ass-wad who has not been around for majority of my life. I grew up without that male figure, that unconditional love from a man that proves a girl’s worth and makes her the woman she becomes. But I am SO lucky to have my husband’s father, who gives the best hugs, who can sit and have a spiritual conversation with me one minute to playing on the floor with my children the next, to letting our mastiff slobber all over him because he knows how much even the silly dog needs him.
He died Friday evening a couple of hours after writing me an email asking if I can take the kids to visit him before school starts. I am so lucky to have had him in my life. He gave me what I never had all those years before … I cherish him.
Sorry about your dad, c. Daddies are important …I am happy you had one like him and you are able to remember him so fondly.
xxoo
July 28th, 2010 @ 8:12 am
The anniversary of my father’s death is tomorrow (we share so many odd closeness of dates in these births and deaths). It’s been 20 years; I have come to terms with a lot. But it guts me to think of all the things he missed. My sons. Teaching them to fish. Getting pictures from hockey school. It never goes away. It mellows, perhaps, but never really goes away. Which is good, I guess. To top thinking about him altogether would be to lose him twice.
July 28th, 2010 @ 9:37 am
This was a good piece of writing. I am thankful my father is still present in my life and I am going to take a moment to tell him so.
July 28th, 2010 @ 9:49 pm
Your Dad sounds like he was an amazing man, and how cool to see your father’s wonderful traits and qualities in your firstborn son. What a beautiful treasure this post is and oh how it touched my heart in the most wonderful way! You are so lucky to have had such a great man for a father….he lives within you, always.
lots of love,
tara
July 28th, 2010 @ 9:51 pm
p.s. 32.5 years young!
you will do GREAT in school or whatever you decide to do! You have a gift, well several gifts and you use them very well!
love,
tara
July 29th, 2010 @ 9:44 am
A wonderfully written piece. I relate well to the complexities of your feelings for your father. My parents were solid and loving but I often felt they held me back and worked to keep my life confined to the house, my experiences and ambitions small. It was suffocating.