Remembrance of a Father Passed

I am the fifth and last child in my family: Boy-girl-girl-girl-me. There was another pregnancy after my birth, resulting in the still birth of a boy with severe hydroencephalia (water on the brain) which lead to a vasectomy soon thereafter. We Morris kids are all Baby Boomers, from the first child born in 1947 (nine months after the wedding) to me, born slightly less than eight years later. My father was 25 when he married, a few weeks shy of 33 when I was born.

This context is important, because I don't have a warm and fuzzy remembrance of my late father. He did a lot of damage. Yet I know I could have been--and still could be--a better son; obviously, the conversation is rather one-sided now. I won't bore you with a litany of complaints about his sparse parenting skills. My divorced mother urged me to forgive, keep the door open and maintain a relationship with him. She cautioned me about the unintended consequences of burned bridges, encouraged me to find peace through patient communication.

When we become parents, we realize how difficult a job it is. When I became a dad my first time, I faced the irony that I was the same age my father was when I was born. His reality on that day included five kids, a nine-year-old marriage, a mortgage and he was only months away from launching his own business. A pretty hefty plate, that was. As I walked around GWU Hospital cradling my precious first-born, I felt a new connection with my wayward dad. I had, as yet, no other children, no mortgage, no self-employment responsibilities. My spouse of nearly four years had her own substantial career, leaving me as the secondary wage-earner. Less than 24 hours after becoming a member of the club, I had the beginnings of a new appreciation of my father's challenges.

Please don't get the wrong idea--there is no happy-sappy end to our story. Dad lived on for a dozen more years. I once again reached out, he accepted. We interacted. He gave what he could, especially as an eager handyman. He used his manual skills as a surrogate for affection. Perhaps he gave me much less than I craved, he gave it generously. But I wanted more. His relationship with his grandsons died for lack of attention. Ultimately, he chose to betray our relationship, fatally poisoning our slender bond a few years before his death. That is a tale for another time.

What cannot be denied is that, for good or ill, we sons are our fathers' legacy. Some traits are inherited, some habits are learned. I catch myself repeating some ill-considered action or comments that I gleaned from him, I should know better. I court the forgiveness of my children when I do. I also try to forgive myself. The sins of the father are real enough.

Certsinly there are good things I learned from my dad:

• Connecting with and respecting my relatives, especially the elders. I treasure the aunts, uncles and cousins, nieces and nephews. I do my best to nurture those relationships over time and distance. My father was an only child, his mother was widowed when he was only an infant. Staying close to relations in Colorado, Wyoming, Oregon and California was important to him. 
• Loving San Francisco. My father felt he was blessed to have been raised in the City by the Bay. He loved to show it off, and he loved to share his remembrances of  "How things were in the good old days." If you know me, you know that this in many ways defines me. I'm a native-born San Francisco kid to my dying breath.
• An appreciation of architecture. This may surprise other family members, but it goes hat-in-hand with San Francisco and his glass business. Dad used to show off his work on a couple of impressive buildings, yes--but he also was a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright. Dad proudly showed off the Morris Building (now Xanadu Gallery) in San Francisco and the Marin County Courthouse in San Rafael. I most certainly am a fan of Wright's, and appreciate architecture much more than your average Joe.
• Loving California--my father loved the Golden State. My love of all things Yosemite stem from our numerable summer trips to the "Incomparable Valley." That's just the beginning. 
• Volunteerism. My father was a dedicated Lions Club member. He raised money for the blind and ran the Youth Exchange Program for Northern California, further exposing me to hundreds of students from the far corners of the globe--many of whom stayed in our home. In his later years, he chose to volunteer for the Second Harvest food bank. We never had much in the way of material things, but he was always willing to share his time and skills for a good cause. I've jumped in wherever I could.
• The travel bug. Dragging our brood around the state and across the Rockies to visit family included seeing other sights all across the American West. I've taken traveling to a much higher level, but his example got me started. He even managed to see a Space Shuttle launch, an opportunity that has passed me by.
• My very rudimentary fix-it skills. I was a poor student, but what I learned, I learned from him.
• Being there. Overall, he flunks this test--yet the few exceptions are notable, and I appreciated them then and now. He came to a half dozen or so of my football (in which I rarely played), attended my graduations, my East Coast wedding, and made two more cross-country trips to visit me in later years. It may amount to mere crumbs, but they are no less precious.

That's about it. A pretty short list, indeed. Yet I appreciate what I gleaned from my father; I accept that he had  his limitations, though with regrets and no small measure of sadness. Growing up without his own father shaped him in innumerable ways beyond his control, compromising his own abilities to parent. It's not about fault, it is about our shared history. Most importantly, I have made it my life's mission to be the best father I can be. Fatherhood for me is about making the best of the skill set I was given, doing the best with what I have learned along the way, and loving the hell out of my sons every moment I breathe on this Earth.