Like Father

On His Birthday, Embracing the Compliment

When I was young, people used to tell me I took after my dad.

This upset me. I didn’t mind that I had his dark, curly hair, or even his unibrow. But I knew what they meant went beyond shared physical traits, and unlike my saintly mother, my father was complicated.

He was smart and generous, but moody. Out in the professional and social world, he hid his sensitivity, restrained his feelings, unleashing everything when he got home. He carried his days with him, good and bad, which made him unreliable, and made me afraid of him. When he walked in the door at night, I didn’t know which Dad I’d be getting: the jocular one, happy to sit around the dinner table with us, or the short-fused one who would spank me for giggling over some silly joke with my brother.

Time passed, and we had our moments. A Republican father and a hippie daughter is a recipe for shouting matches and slammed doors. But going away to college, marriage, grandbabies, the events that mark a life, smoothed us over. My mother’s death brought us even closer.

Nursing homes are almost always depressing, and my father’s was no exception. Its saving graces were few and fleeting, and required recognition of the small, good things. As it turned out, my father did this with ease. He had a knack for, as my cousin Nancy put it, blooming where he was planted. Aside from the drama of rival girlfriends, my father’s life calmed and centered. He found ways to thrive.

He enjoyed painting and was always making his way through some mystery novel. He served on every committee he was asked to join and never, ever lost his love of purpose or people, especially his grandkids. He was in a place (assisted living) and in a position (wheelchair bound, catheterized) where many people would wither, but he was like a relentless, a joy-seeking missile. He’d gripe about inconveniences, but he never, ever stopped appreciating the beauty of the sunrise.

In his later years, when people mentioned I take after my father, I would thank them. Now that’s he’s gone, my dearest hope is that they were right.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love you forever.