What My Father Gave Me

My dad told me recently that he's not the man that I think he is. Not in a "I'm actually a KGB defector hiding out in America" sense, but rather that he's not always been the best husband, or the best father, and that he doesn't deserve the praise and pride I have for him. At the time I didn't know how to respond except for polite denial, but to some extent what he said wasn't entirely without merit.

His marriage to my mother always had its ups and downs, which was mostly hidden from me as a youth but became more apparent as I got older. In the last few years before I reached eighteen there were fights and accusations and suspicion and then, finally, parting. He'd stayed through years of it, though, to make sure I had a dad at home until I was an adult. We drifted apart over the next few years, each of us trying to figure out his own next step, but I always knew he was never more than a phone call away if I needed him, as he was many years before when he showed up to a movie he had no interest in seeing after hearing his thirteen year old son had gone to see it alone and as he'd been for countless, confused talks when my teenage world seemed unbearable and endless.

After awhile, when we'd both settled into our new lives, we started calling more often and seeing each other periodically, though his work schedule and my class schedule seldom allowed much more than that. It was during this time that I started thinking about my early years and about who I'd become as a twenty-something. I'll admit that I'm no more sure of what I want to do with my life now as a thirty-something than I was ten years ago, but I think that I've become a good person, someone who treats others well and tries to live an honorable life, and as I thought back then of having grown into this I also thought of my dad and what I'd learned from him over the years, starting with drinking.

My father gave me my first taste of alcohol when I was too young to retain clear memory of time or place. I'm left only with a hazy recollection of sitting on the carpeted floor of our house on Elm street in Atlantic; I believe it was right after he and my mom had ended their long stretch away during which time I lived with my grandparents. He sat on the couch watching Wheel-of-Fortune with an only slightly chilled tall can of Coors propped between his jean clad legs and I got up and sat next to him. As a kid I was baffled by Wheel-of-Fortune and for the most part disinterested in everything but the colorful wheel itself, which is generally how I still feel about the show as an adult so I now understand why my father may have looked to alcohol as a means to see him through to the Cowboys game that was coming on afterward.

After a few minutes of watching Vanna pace side to side I asked him what he was drinking. "Beer", he replied; "its for grown ups, but its not very good."

Skeptical of his warning I asked for a taste; " If you don't tell mom, but only a sip, that's all".

I took the awkward can clumsily between my miniature hands and as I raised it to my lips I was hit first by the smell. I'd likely have thought it putrid had I known the word at the time; that rank, stale stench I'd find repugnant for years afterward and to some extent even now. A sip was all it took. It was flat and bitter, not nearly as cool as the can suggested and it fought back violently as I tried to swallow. I squinted my eyes and wrinkled my nose and I imagine my face looked as though it was having some abhorrent, rancid lime wrung from its pores; juice, pulp, peel and all. Even after I forced it down the taste lingered acridly in my mouth for some time. I hastily passed the can back to my father who smiled at me with the satisfied look of one who knew his work was done.

From that point until I was in my late twenties, I never tasted another sip of alcohol and I don't recall seeing my father drink after that either. It wasn't until years later, maybe my late teens or early twenties, that I heard in passing from my sister that my dad used to struggle with alcohol. I never saw it and don't think it was truly "alcoholism", just a bad habit like the Marlboro Reds I can't get him to quit. I know that he wanted to make sure I didn't succumb to the same pitfalls as him, though, which is why he helped me develop a healthy distaste for it from the start. I won't be so melodramatic as to say that it saved me from a life of drunkenness. Perhaps it did, but likely I would have been equally fine had I not shunned alcohol for the next twenty plus years. Not everyone who drinks spirals into the doldrums of alcoholism and despair, after all. I do know, though, that it did keep me away from drinking long enough to develop my own thoughts and feelings about it; to not simply go along with whatever my friends were doing, which inspired that approach in other areas of my life.

Years passed before I would again share a drink with my dad. It was the night of my wedding and he sat across from me on our new family's patio after the reception, a beer in his hand, still in the tie I'd tied for him earlier and with the biggest smile I'd ever seen hung from his whiskers. I remember thinking at some point as I sat with my dad and my wine, surrounded by smiling family and friends, that I must be a good man for my wife to have married me because I certainly came out the winner in that deal. She's beautiful and talented and brilliant and there's a moment of confused disbelief that flashes before the eyes of anyone we're introduced to as "Mr. and Mrs. Benton", as though their mind can't quite reconcile the disparity between her and the man who'd somehow tricked her into marriage. Had she lost a bet or was it pure pity? I like to think its because she believes I'm a good man and if, then, I am indeed a good man, good enough to win over someone as lovely as Jess, its in great part because of my father and what his own actions have taught me about hard work and honesty and honor, and it all started with that first sip.

He maybe wasn't the perfect husband to my mother, or even the perfect father to me, but who's really perfect anyway? It doesn't make him any less of a good man and maybe perfection isn't really what people need in life. Perfection leaves no room for experience or the knowledge that comes from making mistakes, which are each fundamental to true learning and life in general. In the end maybe people are better served by someone who, though perhaps not perfect, will do their best to teach them right from wrong, encourage their ability to make decisions for themselves and give them the wisdom to do it responsibly and, above all, to be a good person always. Again, if I am any of this, it is because of my dad who is the best dad I could ask for and no words are thanks enough for all he's given me; all I can do is try to be the man I know he is.