Obviously, my dad is still in my head.
In April, when I was at my Dad’s group at church, the pastor was reading a piece on joy by Fred Buechner. We talked about the concept. Then, I mentioned that my go-to emotional state was melancholy.
I related this story, which I wrote about back in 2010. But I left details out, which I will add in italics.
We had a piano which my father painted, lilac, I think. “When I was four or five years old, Leslie marked up the piano with some crayons. In retrospect, it seemed like a reasonable thing; he colored the piano so she could too. My father went to Leslie and asked her who had marked the piano, and she said that Roger had done it.
“So my father got the strap that hung in the kitchen – this brown leather thing about a foot long that barbers used to sharpen their razors – and started wailing on me. One of the things he was looking for from me was an apology, yet even in the midst of my pain, I was unable to do so. ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!’ I sobbed.
“Eventually, and these are pretty much in the words of my father, recounting the incident years later, he figured that I was either really stupid or I was actually innocent. Finally, he requestioned Leslie, who finally confessed, and he started wailing on her.”
I’ve told this story a few times, but usually one-on-one, to my wife or a close friend. But this time, I added, “But he didn’t f**in’ BELIEVE me!”
Huh
Hmm. That was interesting. And surprising. Me cursing, even in our closed group, is not in my nature. So the telling of this thing that happened in 1958 somehow still has a visceral reaction in me. Among other things, it informs the pain when I feel when I’m not heard, or when people make assumptions about me that are untrue. It can tick me off but later, the melancholy takes hold.
The next morning, one of my online buddies wrote to say he was having prostate surgery; it was benign. My father died of prostate cancer. It was an interesting coincidence.
And the stories on CBS Sunday Morning that day – this is why Allah invented the DVR – about “The Covenant of Water” author Abraham Verghese, who was inspired by his mother and grandmothers; and Photographer James Balog on documenting climate change: “Adventure with a purpose” somehow leaned into the melancholy.
My relationship with my father was complicated. I’m sure my sisters would say that about their respective dealings with him, too. It’s been 24 years to the day since he died. I had the ridiculous thought that everyone should die in years ending in zero because it makes the math easier.