A Father’s Legacy
By Vaughn Roycroft | June 17, 2019 |
“Chow time!” The author’s father is on the far left.
The past few weeks have been the perfect storm. It started with Memorial Day. Then came the D-Day commemorations, and a slew of articles and remembrances. Then came Fathers’ Day.
My father didn’t participate in the D-Day invasion, but his unit—the 86th Infantry, known as the Black Hawks—was one of the few to see combat in both the European and Pacific theatres. They saw action in the Ruhr Pocket, were among the first American units to cross both the Rhine and then—after they were moved south to Bavaria—the Danube. The Black Hawks were also among the last American soldiers to see action in the Philippines, rounding up Japanese soldiers who refused to surrender up until October 1946, over a year after the Japanese government surrendered.
Dad passed away almost exactly a decade before my writing journey began, and just a few weeks short of his 75th birthday. On this year’s Father’s Day, he would’ve been 100.
All through the events of the past few weeks, I’ve been pondering and tinkering with a revised opening for my trilogy. One that heavily features my protagonist and his father, and their turbulent relationship.
So yeah, it’s been impossible to avoid thinking about him.
“It’s Not My Thing…”
My dad was a man’s man. It wasn’t just that he’d been in combat, he’d played fullback when helmets were leather and had no facemasks. He was an excellent golfer and participated in a half-dozen leagues. I was a kid who quit every sport I started, and who read Fantasy/SciFi novels and kept his comic books sorted by subgenre.
Although my dad never belittled my love of Fantasy/SciFi—in fact, he was always generous at the book store, pretty much buying us whatever we wanted—he was more of a non-fiction reader. You know—serious stuff.
I remember bugging him until he came along with me to see the first Star Wars in the theater (it may have been my third or fourth viewing). He laughed a few times during the picture, but I kept my hopes guarded. Sure enough, in the car on the way home, when I dared ask what he thought, he said something like, “It was all right. But you know that’s not my thing.” I did.
He was a man’s man, yes, but a kind man, too. And a gentleman. And he was outgoing. My dad seemed to know everyone in town, and everyone liked him. I thought the world of him, and always sought his approval. Until I didn’t.
Unseen Imprint
It’s funny, looking back on the early going, how I didn’t see my father in my storytelling. I did recognize the effect he’d had on my writing life; his methodical approach to things, his dedication to getting the job done, and his insistence that a job worth doing was worth doing well–these were all ingrained lessons I have always credited to him (and have at least mostly aspired to). But within the stories? I didn’t really see his imprint.
Mothers, I had. My early work featured both a mother-son relationship and a mother-daughter one. The father of my male protagonist in my first trilogy was dead. My protagonist was too young at his death to remember him. But his father’s legacy looms large. The expectations, both good and bad, born of living up to that legacy weigh heavily upon him. And yet, at the time, I remained oblivious. In fact, in a 2011 piece about my father, I said only that I saw him in my protagonist’s kindly grandfather. Not that this wasn’t true, but sheesh. Talk about selective perception.
It took my current trilogy to actually get down to it. And it took all the years of writing books three through six to finally begin to clearly see it. My relationship with my father weighs heavily on my entire writing journey.
From Buddies to Betrayal
My parents split when I was fourteen. I’m the youngest of four, and when my mom left, I was the only one of his children who lived with my father in the house we’d grown up in. Through my teen years, my dad and I grew closer than ever—two buddies navigating bachelorhood. Even my friends loved my dad. During my late teens and early twenties, after Saturday night partying my buddies would stay at our house. On Sunday mornings, Dad would quietly attend church while the gang slept it off. He’d come home and cook a complete farmer’s Sunday dinner (traditionally served mid-afternoon) for one and all. My buddies and I would have roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed string beans, and biscuits for breakfast.
Soon after my parents split, my father and I learned of my mother’s boyfriend, who owned a wholesale lumberyard in town. Through those early years together it was us against them (anyone who had anything to do with the boyfriend). Though it had been strained, as the years went by, my relationship with my mother came around. I went to college, met my wife, and moved out of state. You know, the typical distance-making life-events that develop between parents and children.
In our mid-twenties, my mother’s beau came to my wife and me with an offer. He offered us not just jobs, but a chance to own a business. We accepted, and moved back to my home town.
The very first time I saw my father afterward, I knew. Though he didn’t say it, deep down he felt betrayed. I had gone over to the other side.
I’ll never forget the one and only time we broached the subject. My dad had a fence section that needed to be replaced. Over his objections, I insisted on supplying the lumber. The pieces were short enough to fit in my hatchback, so I delivered them after work. While we unloaded them, he asked, “So what’s the goal here?”
I immediately knew he was referring to more than fencing. I sort of lamely prattled on about how I was seizing the opportunity to own my own business. And that I wasn’t looking for a free ride—that my wife and I would have to work for it, stock from profit. He averted his eyes, nodded, and carried half the lumber off to the garage.
He lived long enough to glean that our ownership deal was going awry, and he never said, “I told you so.” Worse, he didn’t live long enough to see us actually earn our way to owning another lumberyard, and making it one of the most successful of its type in the nation.
On the day we unloaded the fencing, I was thirty years old. But reflected in my father’s eyes in that moment, I saw a ten year old boy. And not in a good way.
Legacy Revealed
In my WIP, my protagonist Vahldan’s father is a legendary figure. Sort of like a WW2 combat vet who’d been a star football player. Vahldan’s father is exiled for a crime he didn’t commit. Sort of like a good husband and father who’s exiled from his own family.
In the early going of the story, Vahldan tries to live up to his father’s reputation, and fails. Because of his failure, Vahldan’s father is mortally wounded. His father asks Vahldan to grant him a warrior’s death. A request Vahldan honors. It’s a burden Vahldan carries his whole life.
It took creating a mercy-killing in a story for me to fully understand that, in some way, at some time, we all break our fathers’ hearts.
It took the writing of two trilogies to begin to see how the expectations that weighed upon me have never been my father’s but are my own.
It took an entire writing journey to realize that everything my father did, through his whole life, was for the next generation. For us. For me.
In His Eyes
Near the end of my father’s life he had an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator (ICD). Like a pace-maker, it kept his heart going, even shocking him when his heartbeat became erratic. Due to my flexible schedule as an outside lumber salesman, I had the privilege of routinely driving him to the University of Michigan Medical Center in Ann Arbor to have his ICD checked. We both came to enjoy the hours spent together on those trips. On one such routine visit to Ann Arbor, the doctors found an abnormality that required immediate emergency heart surgery.
It was late in the afternoon. We were a two-hour drive from home. The last thing my father said as they took his stretcher away was that I should just go on home, that he’d be fine. I’d never quite seen a look in his eyes like he had just then. He was afraid. Which frightened me.
I stayed. Very late that evening, the doctor came and told me all had gone well, and he had a surgical nurse take me to see Dad in recovery. The nurse told me he wasn’t quite awake yet, but that he should be shortly. She said it was okay to hold his hand. I did.
My dad opened his eyes and found focus on me. He was on a ventilator and couldn’t speak. I told him that he was doing great—that he’d come through like a champ. That everything was going to be all right. He squeezed my hand. Tight. A tear rolled down the man’s-man’s cheek.
Reflected in my father’s eyes in that moment, I saw a ten year old boy. In a good way.
I’ll never forget that moment. And I’ve only just realized how long I’ve sought the way to properly convey it as a storyteller.
It took twenty-five years and two trilogies to understand that I long to honor my father’s legacy. And that I’m grateful for it.
How about you? Do you see your parents’ imprint on your work? Do you feel beholden to legacy?
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
Wonderful piece, Vaughn, and beautifully written. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Thank you, Lorraine – means a lot to me. Have a wonderful writing week!
Vaughn, what a profound and beautiful post – beautiful because it sounds like you’ve come full circle, yet profound because you seem so willing to keep exploring. I had a more complicated relationship with my mother than with my father ( he and I butted heads in a very straightforward manner), and am only now seeing how elements of this complexity have surfaced in my writing. Not just in one character, either. It reminds me how deep these connections go and how our minds diffuse and re-route them when we attempt to tell a story. We hear all the time to write what we know, but I think we also write to understand. I look forward to someday reading your books!!
Hey Susan – It really does feel like I’m coming around to a better understanding, for which I’m grateful. But I’m also positive the exploration must continue.
You know, ten years ago I would’ve said my relationship with my mom was the more complicated of the two. I think my dad was just so much more straightforward, so stalwart, personality-wise that it took all this time to discover the nuances that have been there all along. And you’re right – I’ve discovered it through story. Don’t we have the greatest gig ever?
Thanks, as always, for your insight and for your kind words.
Vaughn, you’ve captured so well not only your father’s character and impact on your life, but the journey we all take as we grow from being our parents’ children into becoming our selves. Lovely post. Thank you.
Thank you, Kathleen. Your praise always means the world to me. Have a productive writing week!
What a beautiful tribute to your father. Requiescat in pace!
Thank you, Vijaya, for your kind praise! He is always with me, for which I’m grateful.
Well done, Vaughn. Your father would be proud.
Hugs
Dee
Aw, thanks, Dee – that’s the best praise you could’ve possibly offered. Have a wonderful writing week!
Well, Vaughn, you made me cry! At work, none-the-less. :) I don’t know you well, but I do know that of the characteristics you list of your father’s at the beginning of the story, you embody them. Lovely, lovely post and thanks for sharing your father’s legacy with us, both on paper and in your actions.
Oh wow, sorry about the work tears, Lara. But that means so much to me (isn’t it always weird how readers’ tears are such a wonderful compliment?). I’m so glad it resonated.
Thanks much for your very kind and special praise.
This is a great post, Vaughn, and highlights how our minds work at the unresolved issues that are most important to us — even if we don’t realize it. Write on, my friend.
That really has been the most surprising part – how blind I was to it as I worked. I don’t think I could’ve come to the level of understanding I’ve reached so far if I’d been more cognizant during the last decade. But even if I had been, I’ve found over the years that it’s almost impossible to “force” some consciously desired outcome. The subconscious stuff always finds its way out, doesn’t it?
Thanks so much, T – for your kind praise and for your guidance and support.
Great insightful post. Almost made me cry because . . . You wrote: in some way, at some time, we all break our fathers’ hearts.” My response: Unless your father doesn’t live long enough. Mine died when I was 16. I still miss him almost 57 years later.
Aw, I’m so sorry for your loss, Faith. In this case, it’s your heart that’s broken. I’m guessing he’s still with you, though, and I sincerely hope that your writing has been a part of your healing through the years.
Thanks much for your praise and for sharing with us!
Tears from me too, Vaughn. What a powerful essay that really gets me thinking about times past. My love of books and stories comes from my mom. My love of adventure and new lands comes from Dad (he took us to live in Saudi Arabia and Libya). He also served in WWII–but I don’t remember much about that. However, I do recall the parachute, which for some reason he had brought back. He let the neighborhood kids play games under it.
Wow – Suzanne, I wonder if your dad was in the Airborne? They played such a vital role in the war. Very cool. My dad hardly spoke about the war, and I found out much of what I know via his army buddies after his passing (connecting online with his unit).
Love of adventure is truly a special gift, and one that I’m sure serves your writing journey well, too. I’m honored that you found the post moving, my friend. Thanks much for your kind praise, and for sharing with us.
A beautiful piece, Vaughn, with plenty to learn about writing and life — I love the way you weave the two together. I spent a lot of time out of the country as a kid (my parents were anthropologists), and I’ve long wanted to work it into my writing, but I wasn’t comfortable doing so while they were alive for so many reasons. My dad died last year, and I know I will find a way to weave his legacy into my writing. I just hope I can do it with half the grace, beauty, and emotion that you’ve done in this post. Well done.
Hey Julia – Sorry for your loss. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what my dad would make of all of this. But that’s great, that you’re thinking you’re free to explore legacy questions now. It’s bound to be enlightening. And part of that enlightenment will reveal their approval, I’m sure. I know that’s something I’ve come to grasp.
Thank you, thank you for your very kind praise. Wishing you the best with your exploration!
Vaughn, touching and meaningful stuff. I have been thinking more and more of my father lately as well, and our mostly good, sometimes troubled relationship. He was a waist gunner on a B-17 in WWII’s European Theater, and flew at least 35 missions—which is a lot—and many of his fellows didn’t come back. One of those missions was the firebombing of Dresden, a controversial act because the German military assets there were minimal.
That firebombing was a central subject in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House Five. Vonnegut was imprisoned in Dresden during the bombing, so my father could have killed one of my favorite authors. I’m glad he didn’t, but tens of thousands of others died.
He was a warm man and I loved him a great deal (my mother and he were married for 64 years before his death from Alzheimer’s some 8 years ago), but he never let us in on his deeper thoughts about his life and his dreams. And I never knew the right questions to ask, or didn’t have the courage to do the asking. I’m left wondering.
Thank you for some lovely writing, and digging into the complications between fathers and sons.
Whoa, Tom – I’m pretty sure European Theater bomber crews had the highest casualty rates of any division of service in WW2! (Did you ever read The Wild Blue?) Your dad was lucky to see it through, and surely he was well aware of it. Dresden (and Hamburg) are thorny issues, for sure. Such horror. What a brutal war (and painting it as such a “good” war now serves nothing).
I did have the opportunity (and somehow found the courage) to ask my dad about how we (America) can possibly justify Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He was reading the paper, and at first he left it raised. But I could see he was thinking about how to answer. He finally let the paper crunch into his lap. He said (paraphrasing an old memory). “When we were on our way across the Pacific in August of ’45, we knew we were meant to be on the front lines for the invasion of the mainland (Japan). One day our C.O. lined us up on the deck and told us to look at the man on our left, then on our right. He then said that two out of three of us likely wouldn’t survive the first day of the landing. Maybe you can’t justify dropping the A-bomb. But it’s pretty tough to justify the slaughter of all of those boys I stood there with that day, too.”
Not sure if that helps, but it offers some perspective to Dresden.
I wonder if our dads silence was not only self-protective, but protective of us… Of all of those they loved, and of the life they wanted to rebuild and preserve. The fact that, after all of that horror, they were both kind and warm men says a lot about them and their generation, doesn’t it?
Thanks for sharing a bit of your dad, Tom. Here’s to the dads, and to the digging. Cheers, my friend.
Tom…I am wondering if my grandfather served with your father. He was a copilot on a B-17 crew stationed in England (457th bomb group)…though I know he wasn’t involved in the Dresden mission, because he completed his 35 missions in 1944 and was sent home to complete his service stateside. My uncle (retired Air Force) recently described the technical challenge of a bombing run, and no wonder the casualties were so high. I’m glad your father was also fortunate enough to survive.
Plus, the Americans flew their European bombing missions during the day (by agreement, the Brits took the night-shift), and often beyond the range of their fighter planes’ accompaniment. So very naked to counterattack.
Very cool, the potential connections here (and with Keith, below). The past is not so distant as we might think, is it? I’m grateful for all of them, dads, grandpas, uncles. They were truly a special breed, and we owe them much.
Alisha, that’s an interesting connection. My dad flew with the 423 Squadron, 306 Bomb Wing, 8th Air Force, out of Bedford, England. He wrote diary entries for many of his missions. The entry that day is terse:
Raid #24
Ship – 598 B17G
Dest: Dresden
Flak Light
Weather Bad over Germany
Pilot Lt. Hallium
Nothing about the incredible severity of the bombing. And Vaughn, I’m grateful to all the soldiers too, and the brave people who remained steadfast at home during wartime. The casualties for the war were horrific, and it’s hard to justify some acts (such, as you mentioned, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and perhaps Dresden too), but the consequence should the Axis powers not be defeated looked much graver.
Crazily enough, my father then served in the same capacity in the Korean War as well. No wonder he wanted to go to Las Vegas so often when we were kids—he must have thought he was born lucky.
What a wonderful legacy your father left you, and what an adventure for you, to be coming alive to the resonances of his life in your own life and writing.
Serendipitously, I have just been reading Margaret Atwood (Negotiating with the Dead) on the journeys we must take as writers to descend into the unknown and the past, where the dead hold their stories, and bring back those stories into our own work, inevitably transformed as we tell them. (Would that I could say that as elegantly as she does!) Vaughn, I am sure you are taking that journey. Travel well.
Hey Anna – Sounds like I’d better read Negotiating with the Dead, stat! (And I’d say you stated Atwood’s premise very eloquently indeed.) As I said to Julia, above, a lot of this descent into the unknown and past began with me wondering what my dad would think of my work (something I’ve rarely done because… well, fantasy “wasn’t his thing,” lol). That’s when the dead began to speak to me. And in my dad’s case, to reveal that he’d been there with me through it all.
As I say, I’ve come to see that the expectations that I’ve always carried, and had considered his, were really mine all along. I *wanted* to live up to him. And writing is my way of honoring him. I think he wanted me to know that. And I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m willing to listen.
Thanks for the recommendation, and for your kind words and well-wishes.
True storytellers transform the joy and pain of their lives into tales that become universal. You have done that.
Beautiful post.
Thanks, Don! Your input always means the world to me.
Vaughn. VAUGHN. Oh, Vaughn. This was so wonderful. Thank you for sharing this beautifully written and deeply personal reflection on your father and your relationship. I loved it.
Kristan. KRISTAN! You really know how to make a guy’s day… No, week. :) Thank you, my friend!
Great post, Vaughn. My Dad, like yours, served in WWII. He was in the Pacific Theatre the whole time. He also died at about the same age as your Dad. I think about him every day. We were close. He was one of the best human beings I’ve ever known. A really nice, good man. May your father’s memory be eternal!
Hey J.F. – Same here, every day. And same here, one of the best humans I’ve ever known.
I’ll never forget all of the people I didn’t know at my father’s funeral services who came up and told me lovely stories about him. One man (wish I’d been sharp enough to write down his name) came to me and said something like, “Your dad was one of the kindest men I’ve ever met.” I sort of agreed with him, I imagine somewhat dismissively, and he, like, got in my face and said, “No. Listen to me. He was extraordinarily kind. In this world, that’s no small thing.” And now I finally see it. That’s a legacy.
I wish you and your Dad the same – an enduring memory, and legacy. Best to you in carrying it on. Thank you!
To write about a life and how it affects, is entwined in our very own opens up our very selves. Thank you for sharing your life as reflected in your relationship with your father’s. Yes, how we do learn over time and as writers. How we feel the depths of small moments and large ones. Your tribute and your search are as pure as the writing. Maybe we have such observances as Father’s Day to urge us to this work. I’ve been dong it too. Thanks, Vaughn.
Hey Beth – You know, after my dad passed, I started to dislike Father’s Day. I’m finally back to appreciating it, and I can see that you’re right. I’m glad to have been urged to this work.
The writing really does provide us with a special sort of prism through which to do this work, and I’m grateful. And I’m glad to know you’re doing the tough work alongside me. Thanks for providing inspiration and for your encouragement, Beth!
What a beautiful, powerful tribute, Vaughn. (Tears here too, and you should absolutely take the compliment!)
I loved reading not only about your evolving relationship with your dad, but also how that has influenced your trilogies. For my own work, I would say that the current project is in a too-early stage to make that kind of connection, but I’m mindful that important bits will emerge from the subconscious. The setting is based on one that has meaning for my parents–and my grandmother–as well as for me, so what I’m most aware of right now is taking inspiration from and weaving in some more-distant family stories that I collected in a recent family reunion. Perhaps later I’ll be able to see what’s lurking beneath the surface.
Hi Alisha! Aw, thanks – I’m honored that you were moved.
I think being aware and open to that connection is the most important thing about this exploration. As I say to T, above, I really don’t think it’s anything we can “force”. Our conscious selves are pretty protective of our waking perspective. We sort of have to trick it into letting our subconscious show us the good stuff. That’s part of the deep dive that we all must take.
What great fodder the reunion must be! And so cool that your grandmother is a part of the sketches that are forming. Wishing you a trove of connectivity treasure in your ongoing explorations! Thanks for your insight and kind praise, my friend.
This is beautiful Vaughan! One of your best essays, if not the best. I’m glad you had that moment of grace with your dad.
I don’t think I’ve yet had my epiphany moment about how my complicated family life plays into my writing.
Certainly isolation to alliance is always an underlying theme in my work. People finding and making their own families and community. As I was fortunate to do.
Thanks for this lovely piece. Your dad sounds like a hell of a guy.
Hey Sheri – It’s the complexity, I think, that often drives us to explore through writing. And, yes, the family we choose is family indeed.
One of my best boyhood friends had a VERY complicated family life. His dad split first, then when we were in high school, his mom moved to Texas with his sisters and her second husband. Without hesitation, my dad took him in. He lived in our basement bedroom for a couple of years. He’s a devout Catholic, and recently told me that to this day he prays for my dad every. Single. Week in church.
Powerful stuff, family. Whether it’s by blood or not.
I’m very glad you made your own family and community. Being one of the fortunate, I KNOW your stories will resonate for many. So keep ’em coming. Thanks much for your kind words, your insight, and for sharing here today, Sheri.
You touched my heart with this – and made me think of my own father, who passed away 15 years ago. Shortly after is death I started writing about him, but stopped someway half through. Maybe my nerves failed me. But the bits I did write got me closer to understanding him and our relationship. It also showed me how similar we are in some ways (more ways than I had realised).
Maybe one day I will have the courage to pick up that piece of writing again.
Hey J – I’m honored that you found the piece touching. I am positive that, by creating my first protagonist with a father who’d already passed away, I was keeping this stuff at arm’s length. Perhaps that’s what you came up against – that it was just still too raw to be carried through. Just then, anyway. I hope you continue to stay open to it, either in the original project or in another.
I think it’s not always just courage we’re lacking when we distance ourselves from the tough stuff. It’s a willingness to let go, and to forgive not just others we love, but ourselves. One of the things the epiphanies I describe in the piece showed me was that I not only still have his approval, but that I’d always had his forgiveness. I just hadn’t seen or accepted it when he offered it to me.
Thanks for your kind praise today, and for your ongoing support and encouragement, J.
Wow, what a thought (and memory) provoking post. I wish I had more time to respond regarding my parents’ impact on my work. Although I deceived myself for years, claiming that none of my stories had any autobiographical component, I realized belatedly that I was full of shit. But that could be the topic of a whole ‘nother post (and just might become one).
But what is really giving me chills is the very distinct possibility that your dad and my dad served together. What you just described is EXACTLY what he outlined to me on the one – count ’em, ONE – time that I got him to talk about his WWII experience. He served in the same two theaters as your dad, and his final duty was guarding Japanese POWs in the Philippines. I need to check the records and find our his division, but it sure sounds like they fought together.
In my experience, men of that era tended to not be the greatest communicators with their kids. But there was a gravitas there that I don’t feel I’ve ever been able to match – as a father, or as a man. I lost my dad while still in my early 20s, so I’ve lived more of my life without him than with him, but his influence is both profound and indelible. Glad you’re coming to terms with your own sense of legacy. Thanks for a wonderful post.
Ha, Keith – I’m thinking of using Belatedly Realizing That I’m Full of Shit as my autobiography title. Hope you don’t mind.
And I got chills, too, when I saw that your dad may have been a Black Hawk. That’s spooky-cool. And I’m fairly certain that you’re right – a big part of the Black Hawks’ duty in the Philippines was guarding prisoners, as well as “mop-up duty.”
And, if I ever write a paternal biography, Profound and Indelible is my working title for that. Please keep me posted if you look into your dad’s unit. I have a huge box full of pictures and stuff. Wouldn’t be cool if I had one of your dad or both of them?
Thanks for, well, the titles, and for the chills, and for your cool comment and kind words.
Gorgeous piece, Vaughn! I love how you bring out each phase of the relationship with your father, how it changes with time (and maturity). Thank you for sharing it with us. <3
I’m so delighted that the piece reveals the changes in our relationship. Funny, but it feels like it’s still evolving. 25 years after his passing, and I’m still finding layers to his forgiveness, acceptance, grace, and humility.
Thanks so much for your very kind praise, Barbara!
Vaughn, I haven’t been active on WU in awhile due to various things, but what a pleasant reminder to get back on the wagon. Such an insightful post and a touching tribute. I feel like the importance of fathers is sorely neglected in our society, and we must write about them and highlight their influences. My biological father was not a nice man and my mom divorced him when I was a toddler, but i had a stepfather who loved me and taught me about stepping up to the plate. And both of these pivotal experiences are showing up in my current work. Thank you for sharing!
Howdy Neighbor! I have several friends who have step parents who’ve been vital to who they’ve become. As common as it is, I’m sure your stories that reflect the phenomena will resonate for many. Amen to the importance of dads. I don’t know who I’d be without mine, but I’m very glad I didn’t have to find out.
Long time, no see. Glad to hear you’ll be around the WU water cooler more often. Thanks for your praise and this great addition to the conversation, Ellen!
My father died five years ago with dementia. Our relationship was always tense and troubled. When I came back home to help my mom care for him, I thought I’d put all the past hurt and anger behind me. I had not, and when they flared up it made for some truly awful moments. But as the disease left him more and more childlike and helpless, all that melted away. I started to see him as God did — as God must see us all: flawed, frail, in need of forgiveness. Those last years I learned more about patience, forgiveness, humility, and grace than all the years before. Dad has inspired some of my most authentic writing, the stuff I’m most proud of. But his impact on my life goes way beyond my work.
June 18 would have been his 101st birthday. This is my little gift to him. Thanks, Vaughn, for giving me the opportunity.
Oh Christine. Now you’ve gone and gotten me all misty. I’m so glad for the perspective you’ve gained. And as writers, such epiphanies are ours to share. So I’m glad for your readers, as well.
Thank you for touching my heart this morning. As Therese would say (to both of us), Write On!