Chapter 5: The Problem of Fathers

When we whistled a series of fifteen notes in a pattern that defies my ability to describe, White Sox would come running. He was our boxer; he was devoted to each of us in a special way. He always came when any of us whistled. I was playing in a field one day (at age eight) where there were cows (Herefords) and he spent a great deal of time keeping the cows away from me with active barking and dancing. When it was time to go home he lay down and was too tired to get up. I went home and told Mama. She and I took my wagon, lifted him into it, and took him to the vet. He died later that day.

I knew that he was dead, but for several weeks thereafter I would go out to the front porch in the evening and whistle those fifteen notes. And then I’d wait. He never came even though I whistled and willed him to come with all my heart.

The father in the famous prodigal son story used to go out on his porch and look for his son. Day after day, week after week, month after month, for several years, he yearned for his son. “What’s that in the distance? Is that he?” Day after day. Happily for him, the son did come home and they killed the fatted calf. But I knew how he felt, even at age eight.

We grew up in awe of our father. And if he was as great as we thought, one could easily grasp that God the Father Almighty must really be something. Mama repeatedly told us that “your father is the most intelligent man” or “the smartest doctor.” And this about his various swimming strokes: “no one swims more beautifully.” He also won most of his tennis matches. Therefore it was easy to believe that every pearl of wisdom that came from his lips was not just true, but gospel truth.

Later, when I became a vaguely sentient being in college, I realized that he might sometimes be mistaken on some subject or another. I also came to realize that he had absolutely no idea that we children heard his voice, his pronouncements, his dictums, his ideas, his truths, as the real deal.

In my life I have collected fathers. There was my own, of course, and Fr. Brainerd and Fr. Evans and Fr. MacDonald and Fr. Rhys and Fr. Roth and Fr. Merchant, among others. These were priests. There were many other significant male figures who were not priests but had the same powerful influence on me. Joseph Campbell calls this archetype a “male mother;” that is, a nurturing man who is not “dad”. My brother is one also.

But I’m also a dad to my three children and I love them to the point of bursting. Lillian wants me to write this story, but she also has the idea that it could turn into a fictional novel based on familial history. I think she’s on to something here, but I’ve just got to get this part done to “tune up” the old engine for such a project.

As a dad I’ve had a lot of successes. On the other hand, I remember bringing home a balsa wood airplane (just like I had as a boy) for Caroline. She was delighted. On its maiden flight it landed on the roof. Lillian’s papier-mâché vase that we made into a lamp slowly and agonizingly collapsed when the heat from the lightbulb melted the paste. Hank’s time capsule, a coffee can full of pictures and keepsakes carefully buried in the back yard, revealed nothing but mulch when it was exhumed less than six months later.
They love me anyway.

The problem with fathers is that they appear to be gods. They are male, so they have large egos that demand constant feeding, and this feeding (akin to worship), reinforces the god problem. I don’t know if my children believe every pearl that comes from my lips. I hope not. I just hope that they will marry a real lover.