Sins of My Father (Part Two) - The Wonder Year

The first memory I have of my father is of him traveling for work. I’m not sure how often he traveled, but it felt like a lot. It may have been just a couple times, but I missed him, that I remember.

On one trip he promised to bring me a present when he returned. I recall not seeing him until the morning after he got home from wherever he was. He woke me up as if it was a mini-Christmas morning. He brought me what was a ten-inch John Wayne action figure. It was hard plastic and had few moveable parts. His head moved up and down, but not side to side. The arms moved at the shoulders but not at the elbow. He had brown hat and was dressed in blue with a removable vest and holster.

My dad loved westerns and tried his hardest to pass that love on to me. The John Wayne doll was a gesture designed to help in that quest. Although not excited about cowboys and Indians, I was thrilled with this toy. I had it for several years after my parents split.

On another business trip, dad was in a car accident where he crashed into a telephone pole. He split his head open and had a long, curved scar on the side of his head that ran from his scalp to his temple until the end of his life. It could be that he took other trips, bit only those two stick out in my memory. On occasions, my love and admiration for my dad was accentuated at opposite ends of my little heart. On one side was a dad who remembered me on a trip out of town and on the other was the realization that I nearly lost him in car accident.

I have determined that the car accident started in me a reflexive protective instinct for my father. As I grew older it morphed into an instinct similar to someone protecting a mentally disabled teenager or someone else that might face disadvantage in the face of others who do not accept or understand them. As soon as I was old enough to realize that my father was at the very least eccentric, I worried for his safety. He just seemed vulnerable. He was an easy target for anyone who was looking to pick on someone or ridicule a strange looking and odd-acting guy. I remember as a child, lying in bed praying that God watch over and protect my father from men who might beat him up or even kill him. Of course I didn’t know of anyone in his life or mine who would do such a thing, but it certainly didn’t have any perspective either. It could have been my fear for his safety and sadness for his isolation after my mom took my brother and me and left him. Did I see myself as his protector? Certainly not. I think I did recognize that without his family, my dad was simply sad and vulnerable to the darkness that it represented in his life, much in the way that I was afraid of my own dark room. To this, I could relate – any child could. I hated that he was alone, and I was scared for him as a result.

My mom left my dad midway through first grade. Like most children that age, I didn’t see it coming. One day I was in class coloring the birds of fall, the next day I was in a sparsely packed car headed for Florida. I have faint memories of the drive south, but can’t recall exactly why were going. While my parents may have explained things to me, I don’t recall understanding the situation. At the same time, I don’t remember feeling like we were heading down on a vacation either.


My first memory of Florida was the heat. West Virginia was starting to cool off and ease into fall, but Florida was still sweltering. Any anxiety I must have felt would have been quickly put at ease as soon as we went swimming in my Aunt Pat’s pool. Pools have a way of distracting children from whatever anxiety they may have in their lives.

The time that followed was sort of blur. I can’t say exactly how long we lived in that first house with Aunt Pat and Uncle Bob, but it seemed like a long time. I do, however remember us leaving that house and moving to a house in what felt like the country. I vaguely remember moving in to the house and my cousin, Teresa hanging beads in the doorway to her room.

One thing of which I am fairly certain is that we did not talk to my father very often if at all when we first got to Florida. I’m sure I did, but it certainly was not something that was often or regular. The first conversation I remember having with my dad was a call that I made. For whatever reason, I felt like I had to sneak off and call my dad in seclusion. Much was made in those days over the cost of long distance calls. It seemed like such a major expenditure reserved for holidays and tragedies. While I knew my old phone number, I did not know how to dial a long distance call. I waited until the house was clear and the family was outside on the porch. I pulled the upstairs phone up to me and dialed ‘0’ for the operator. When she came on the line, I told her that I needed to call my dad and gave her the number. I was afraid that she was going to ask me if I had permission, but she didn’t. I had not yet learned to lie, but clearly had sneaking down pat. The operator asked me if the call would be ‘collect’ or ‘person to person’. I had no idea what that meant, but chose the ‘person to person’ option.

As the call was placed, the operator thanked me. When I said, “you’re welcome” I remember her laughing as I heard the ring on the other end. My grandmother answered. “Nanny?” “Mickey, is that you? Oh, honey! Let me get your dad.” My dad’s voice sounded so hushed in that conversation. I don’t remember any other detail about the conversation other than the sound of father’s voice. It was soft and held back, yet touched and happy. I can say that from where I am at this point in my life that he was broken – a broken man whose family was a thousand miles away. Later that day my mother approached me and asked if I had called my father. I acknowledged that I had. My grandmother had called back and spoken to my mom. She asked me why I didn’t just ask. Not sure how I answered, but I know I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be calling him. I’m sure I was never told that I couldn’t, but that was the impression that I had. I had planted the seeds of alienation on my own assuming that being with my mother meant that I was “on her team”. This was never coached into me, although I do remember general complaints that my mom made about my dad. Perhaps such complaints equaled his being a ‘bad guy’. Making that jump in general assumption seemed to follow me through my life though.

One thing that I knew then and certainly know now is that my mom did a fantastic job navigating the challenges of being a single mother. Shortly after moving with my aunt and uncle to that second house my mom got a job and car. When my mother and aunt picked me up from school one afternoon, they told me that they had a surprise for me at home. When I asked for hints, they said that it was big and white with red spots. I had just seen ‘Pippi Longstocking’ so naturally; I guessed that the surprise was horse since Pippi’s horse had spots. As we got home I saw that it was a car. An old white Ford. The red spots were rust spots.

Not long after that, we moved into a one bedroom apartment in south Tampa, near MacDill Air Force base. Several of our neighbors were in the Air Force, which I found more peculiar than impressive. I thought the apartment was great. It wasn’t a housing project, but it was certainly low income housing. It didn’t matter to me – not that I knew then. It was ours and it felt nearly perfect.

I have three profound memories from that apartment – two involve my dad. Soon after we moved in a dead woman was found in the brush behind our building. It was on the news and everything! It was by far the coolest thing I had ever been a part of. Of course the rule of the land was that my brother and I, as well as every other kid in the apartment stay away from the spot where the body was found. Not the dark, unlit corners of the complex but the spot where the body was found. Seems funny in retrospect.

At Christmas my father came to visit. My mother picked my brother and I up from the babysitter and we headed home. I remember that the night was cold and felt like Christmas despite the fact that we were in west central Florida. She told us that my dad was coming the next day. Naturally, I was excited. He arrived on a Friday. That night we slept in the living room and watched the ‘Rockford Files’ on TV. We stayed up late enough to see the weather on the news.

I recall my mom giving me a lot of uninterrupted time with my dad. While I needed it, it was also confusing. Somewhere during the trip, I assumed that there was at least a chance that my parents were getting back together. Christmas Eve night was spent at Aunt Pat’s house. It seemed jovial and festive – like Christmas should. I felt whole for the first time in a long while.

Something happened during the course of the night. As we arrived at Aunt Pat’s, I asked dad if he and mom were getting back together. He told me, “I don’t know. We’ll see.” I can still hear those exact words clearly. Yet, by the time we left his demeanor had changed dramatically. Whatever it was, I was oblivious to it. As we walked to the car, I jumped into my dad’s arms and said, “Merry Christmas, dad.” He replied, “not this year, son.” I assumed without asking that this meant that any thought of reconciliation was over.

Despite the sour end, the next morning was a bountiful Christmas. There were football helmets and a ‘Six Million Dollar Man’ action figure and virtually everything else that I asked for. I don’t remember Christmas day or my dad leaving town. But I knew that it was official and over as far as my parents marriage was concerned.

By spring, my mom started making friends at work. One of those friends was a man named Tom. While my mom has said that they were just friends, I’m certain now that Tom had other plans. He was around what seemed like a lot. He was a very kind man. The first day I met him, he brought my brother and I Cincinnati Reds caps. He knew that the way to the heart of a single mother was through her kids! There was nothing about this guy that I did not like besides the fact that I thought he was too fat for my mom.

One night when he was visiting, my bed time came. I was delicately sent to bed as mom and Tom stayed in the living room talking. While I had no idea what was going on behind that closed door, I know I didn’t like the idea. My first approach to being invited back into the living room was to write a note asking to come out and slide it under the door. The note was promptly retuned with the words, “no – goodnight” written in pen. My rebuttal was to draw in crayon a picture of an ice cream sundae with the proverbial cherry on top. This was ignored.

As time passed, I started to call out. Mom came into the room once and instructed me firmly to go to bed, reminding me that I had school the next day. More and more what was developing inside me was the feeling that my mom was being stolen from my father in the other room. Although I knew that he was gone and accepted as best I could that my parents were not getting back together, I was feeling the need to defend something – what, I didn’t and don’t know. My desire to be in the other room became a desperate and frantic struggle. My dissatisfaction grew into fear and hysteria. I was sobbing. My cries were to be allowed to stay up with them, but my heart was mourning what was clearly the final signal that my dad was gone from my life in the way that I knew him and wanted him.

Finally, as I was exhausted and had worn my throat raw, Tom left. I heard the door close and his big footsteps head down the stairs in front of our apartment. My mom did not come into the bedroom immediately. A panic came over me. I was worried that my mom was mad at me and that Tom thought I didn’t like him. I ran to the back window of the bedroom that looked down onto the parking lot. As Tom came around the corner and walked to his car, I screamed out the open window, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He never looked up and kept walking to his car. I grabbed my Reds cap and held it up, screaming in a more conciliatory tone, “thank you for my hat!” At seven years-old I was like a junior codependent, worried about everyone that I had let down from missing my father.

(As I write this, it has occurred to me that while I remember these little traumas and significant moments, I don’t remember what was next or how they were resolved. It’s either a little case of PTSD or a child getting what he wants and settling down as a result.)