Today is my father’s birthday.
Dad passed away on Friday the 13th in March of this year.
I’ve been meaning to write this piece for months. I wrote 2 other pieces about him after he died. The 2nd was the most grueling and most cathartic. I thought this piece would come easily afterwards.
It probably would have if I had gotten on it immediately.
But I took a week to decompress. In that time, George Floyd was killed by the police, and all hell broke loose.
Suddenly, I was very uncomfortable, and even ashamed, to write this piece honoring the man who had gave me the freedom I’ve enjoyed for all of my adult life – especially when confronted with the harsh reality of a race of people for whom freedom has always been a more limited resource.
Today, that feels a little different. Tomorrow is a crucial election, and freedom, as Americans have always known it, is on the line.
Most people who would find an interest in this piece would likely disagree with that opinion, or they would agree from the opposite point-of-view to mine. The strangest irony is that Dad would have been one of them.
But this piece is not about politics, the pandemic, civil unrest, or Black Lives Matter. I give my nod to the historical importance of what is going on in this country at this time, because regardless of what side one is on, everybody is terrified of what is here and now, and what lies ahead.
This piece is about my father, and that precious gift of freedom I mentioned. Time to segue.
It started with my choice of college.
As with many other stories I’ve already shared, this one about my father also involves my mother.
I don’t know where this inspiration came from. Perhaps singing John Denver songs every summer at camp, where his reverence for all things Colorado and the Rocky Mountain High sunk its claws into my unconscious.
All I know is one day when I started to think about college, and where I wanted to go, “Colorado” popped into my mind.
Suddenly, I wanted to go to college in a state I had never been so bad it hurt.
Mom was livid, and we fought about this for the next 3 years.
Mom thought I should go to a small southern women’s college – maybe even her alma mater – or Indiana University. My oldest brother, Jimmy, had been a big man on campus during his time there, and I would have had “an easy 4 years,” as she put it.
But I didn’t give a damn. I wanted Colorado and the fights continued.
I was stubborn, but Mom was relentless. She wore me out enough that I started to cave by the summer before my senior year of high school.
I started to doubt myself, and the dream of Colorado started to fade. I started to wonder if maybe I wouldn’t have a better time in Indiana.
As I mentioned in an earlier piece, Robert and I lived with Dad and Terry during the summers when Mom worked in North Carolina.
One evening, Dad and I were alone and he asked me something about college.
Dad knew that Mom and I had been battling it out over this. But after the divorce, Dad kept a respectful distance from Mom’s mothering. At least, he did most of the time. He sure as hell didn’t that night.
I don’t remember exactly what I said. I think I hemmed and hawed that maybe I should go to Indiana.
“GOD DAMMIT!”
I think Dad even slammed his arm against the sofa. I was so stunned I couldn’t move, and wondered what the hell I had just said to get in trouble.
“No, you’re not!”
“What?”
“You don’t want to go to Indiana! You want to go to Colorado.”
“But Mom says-”
“I don’t care what your mother says!”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open as Dad bellowed that when he was my age, he fought with Dado about where he wanted to go to school. Dado wanted Dad to go to Notre Dame. Dad wanted to go to Tulane in New Orleans.
By some miracle, Dad won and went to Tulane.
“This isn’t your mother’s decision,” he ranted, jabbing one finger in the arm of the sofa to emphasize his point. “It’s your education. She’s not paying for your college. I am! So if you want to go to Colorado, that’s where you go!”
And I did. The University of Colorado, Boulder is my alma mater.
Maybe there really is something about that Rocky Mountain High. Because going to school in Colorado from the end of my teens to my early 20’s changed the entire course of my life.
The west is very different from the south. Because of the idyllic, adventurous way of life of skiing, mountaineering, road trips, rafting, and rock climbing, students came from all over the country and the world to be there.
The realm of possibility was heady, and like nothing I had ever experienced.
I wasn’t even 6 months into my freshman year before everything I wanted out of life changed. There were far too many things to do, places to go, adventures to be had to be satisfied with the conventional and old-fashioned desires I came there with.
But I didn’t know any of this on that night when I was an awkward and insecure 17-year old who couldn’t own my right to want what I wanted. All I felt was that ecstatic relief of knowing that somebody had my back. And the joy of knowing I’d go to school in Colorado.
As young as I was, I didn’t understand the significance of Dad’s support.
But Dad certainly did. I remember how intense he was that night. He was genuinely worked up and even upset on my behalf. He knew how precious and fleeting those years were, and that I only had that one chance to go to the college of my choice.
My life is very different than I thought it would be when I went to the college of my choice all those years ago. Some of my dreams came true. Most of them didn’t. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve enjoyed more freedom in my life than most people I know. That doesn’t happen without a very strong pair of wings. When Dad supported me in my choice of school, he handed me those wings to fly with.
And I’m embarrassed to say that I did not recognize that until after he died.
Today is not just Dad’s birthday. It’s also the second day of Dia de los Muertos, what the Catholics call All Souls Day.
The Aztecs believed that in those precious 2 days after Halloween, the veil between the living and the dead lifts and our departed can be with us. I haven’t celebrated this since the year Mom died.
So tonight I will have the altar ready, with some photos, candles, and feast with my Dad - steak, a baked potato, a heavy red wine, a bottle of Dom, as well as Dad’s favorite snack – Ritz crackers with Peter Pan peanut butter.
It’s the least I can do to express my eternal gratitude for something I never thanked him for when he was alive.
If the Aztecs are right, he’ll be able to receive my thanks.
