Who's My Daddy?

Family get-togethers, at least in our family, are opportunities for us to talk about other family members.  Usually, it's about the ones that aren't there (that's why I try to get to as many gatherings as I can) or those who have passed on, who become the subject of conversation.

My Aunt Bea passed away peacefully, recently, at the age of 94.  During the reception that followed her burial, and I'm not talking a festive party-like gathering, but more of a "this was a long day and we're hungry" event, the topic of my father came up via my brother and another aunt who was in attendance.

In conjunction with Father's Day, and these recent conversations, I thought it appropriate to present everything I know about my biological father.  The picture here is what he looked like when he was about 18.  He left me and my brother when we were about 3 and 2, respectively, in the questionably capable hands of our mother, to move out of state.

I knew he was my father because that's what I was told and I do look a lot like him.  And, his brothers and sister seemed to think he was my father.  My mother's relatives used his name, when referring to my father, and my birth certificate lists his name as "Father." I once had someone stare at me to the point of total distraction, stating, "You must be Jack Cunningham's son, you just took me back 20 years.  I went to school with him."  Okay, didn't know the man.  Hadn't even seen a picture of him.

Until I was about 20, that's all I knew.

I can't say that I missed him, as I didn't remember him.

I thought it strange, as did many others, that my mother accompanied me to the "Father-Son" banquet for the cub scouts, but have since figured out that the "scouting" event put her in the room with a great number of men.  Now I know why were late arriving, as she needed the time to over-primp.  She was quite the attention getter there.  I don't remember if I got any scouting badges or awards, but she did score a lunch date for the next day.

Another reason I didn't have "dad envy," apart from never having or knowing a father, was that mother always had someone around to pick up that slack.

When her male cousins, brothers and brothers-in-law weren't around to do the typical male-bonding things with us, like fishing, camping and yelling at us, her dating efforts provided us with a slew of gift-toting, kid impressing types, who kept her busy as she searched out her next soul mate.  Oh, in my mother's context, soul mate equals someone to pay the bills.

You see, apart from my real uncles, there were the "other uncles."

"Uncle" Bob was a drummer in a band...that was his job.  Now, there's a profession that speaks secure relationships, as one of the reasons my mother left dear old dad was her complaint that he spent too many hours in local bars.  I don't think "Uncle" Bob was playing in the local symphonic orchestra...as the nearest one of those to us was two states away!  He lasted a few years...seems his wife, from whom he was "separated," wanted him back.  Those musicians!!!

"Uncle" Lou was a phantom.  Really!  We knew he existed as there were notes and gifts and lots of comings and goings, after our bedtime.  We were threatened with "no meals, no deserts, no movies, and no life" if we came out of our bedroom to see what this guy looked like.  I thought he must have been so physically malformed that one might turn to stone, if you looked at him.  Silly me.  He wasn't deformed...he was just mean and married.

Another "Uncle" was a shoe salesman.  Another "marrying type," he took Mom to lunch regularly, bought me a sandwich once in a while, and managed to do this around working hours, before he had to rush home to the wife he was "going to leave."

"Uncle" J had lots of little jobs.  He swooned over our mother, but wasn't in the race for long.  I was okay with his short attraction, as we got little more than a "hello" once in a while, and it was always uncomfortable when I was in school with my "uncles" children.  Turned out another one of his jobs, besides not getting around to "leaving his wife," was swooning over other ladies about town.  Mom couldn't handle competing with other girlfriends.  A committed relationship, hey that happens, but sharing a date!  No way!!!

"Uncle" L was a really nice guy.  He waited on our mother hand and foot.  He helped her out with all sorts of issues, bought her stuff, gave us stuff, and was just a nice person.  Problem?  No wife, no money.  Too easy, and not a good soul mate (see definition six paragraphs above).

I digress...since those early years I learned that our father, who art in heaven (sorry about that, too easy, Catholic upbringing, and he did die over 30 years ago), ran from our mother.  Her demands demanded that he get as far away as he could.  He remarried, had another family, and was once again a father.

He left behind a pair of cuff links. 

As Father's Day rolls around, I get asked by many about my father.  I don't have much to tell and have been busy enough in my life not to dwell on him.  I tell them what I know, thinking that they are referring to my biological paternal unit.

One thing that did stick with me, through all of the years of questions, was that I did commit to myself was that, if I ever had children, I would stay in town or in touch no matter what.

That's worked out wonderfully, as my wife and I are happily married for over 30 years and have three great children. 

But, due to the upcoming holiday and questions that keep popping up, I found myself looking up the definition of "father" in Webster's Dictionary, to help keep my thoughts straight...it states, "one who has begotten a child." 

Okay, dear old father did that.  Based on that, he gets 100%.  Hmmmm...so do I.

Then, I thought, maybe there's a different definition for "Dad", and I found this poem:

A Dad is a person
who is loving and kind,
And often he knows
what you have on your mind.

He's someone who listens,
suggests, and defends
A dad can be one
of your very best friends!

He's proud of your triumphs
but when things go wrong
A dad can be patient
and helpful and strong.

In all that you do,
a dad's love plays a part
There's always a place for him
deep in your heart.

And each year that passes
You're even more glad,
More grateful and proud
just to call him your dad!

Thank you, Dad .
for listening and caring
for giving and sharing
but, especially, for just being you!
Happy Father's Day
- Author Unknown

Mystery solved!  Who's my Daddy?  

Based on the definitions in this poem, not the begetter, and not the "uncles."  

Adjusting for gender, turns out my wife is my dad, and if you know anything of my family, stranger things have happened.

Happy Father's Day to my wife!!!

Christmas Traditions

Many of us reflect on the Christmas celebrations of our childhood.

Tradition is something that many of us enjoy.

Over the years, within our tradition group, my boys have focused on things like, "We always open one present on Christmas Eve," We always have a live tree," "We always decorate this way," and so on.

Here's a link to Christmas Traditions from around the world...it seems that no matter where you live or how different celebrations are from one area as opposed to another, we enjoy the sense of security that our own
traditions provide.  Check out how others do it:

http://www.santas.net/aroundtheworld.htm

Our family enjoys the holiday's traditional foods and drinks (Egg Nog appears by the gallon), whoever gets up first in the morning each day, once the Christmas Tree is up in the house, turns on the  lights so we can bask in the holiday glow all day long, and we take turns opening the Christmas cards that arrive, so everyone has a part in checking out the greetings we receive from others!

There's more, but they are escaping me at the moment.  I'm having a flashback to one of the very special Christmas Traditions my brother and I shared with our mother during our early years...one that I refer to as The Annual Dark Apartment Christmas Extravaganza and Game Show.

It was a traditional game involving my mother's skills and the need, on her part I think, to keep her pride alive.

Raising two boys by herself, after our father beat it out of town without leaving so much as a piece of tinsel for the tree, mother used tactics from Hide and Seek, Concentration, Jeopardy, the Price is Right, and Jackpot to annually confound paternal relatives.

At some point during the week before Christmas, we'd hear heavy footsteps coming up the hallway steps to our second floor apartment.  With seemingly amazing radar ability, my mother would sense that it was someone she didn't want to see.

She'd run to the front window and check the roadside for cars.  Sure enough, it was the uncles (my runaway father's two brothers) heading our way and carrying a large box filled with Christmas presents.

She'd run around the apartment hitting each  switch to turn off all of the lights, while instructing my brother and me to "be quiet, don't say a word, don't answer the door, don't breathe, or Santa won't bring you anything and I'll pour all of the Egg Not down the sink and we won't go on a picnic next summer!"  She'd pull out everything!

There we'd sit, crouched by the door, (that apartment was very big so we couldn't go far), while the uncles knocked and knocked and knocked on the door.

They'd talk through the door, telling my mother, "We know you're home.  We won't stay long.  We have some things for the boys."  There would be several attempts, on their part, to make contact with someone in space, and a few sighs and groans.

We'd look at our mother longingly.  They had things for the boys!  Gifts for us!

Each year, even though we knew how it was going down as we'd been through it before, it seemed like a Christmas miracle.  However, my mother had placed the fear of her in us, so each year we turned as blue as a Christmas light bulb, holding our breath for fear of angering our mother to the point of a gift-less holiday and the threat of no future fun, ever.

We'd look longingly at her, raising our eyebrows and smiling tightly at her, silently imploring her to let them in, but each year she'd raise her finger to her mouth and, although she didn't make a sound, we heard her, as clear as the sound of standing next to a 747, as she mimed the on-going threat.  Her frown and the continual thrusting and sharp pointing of her index finger drilled it in.  Quiet!!!

This would go on for hours!  Well, it seemed like hours, but was probably only about five minutes.  The uncles would leave...we'd hear the footsteps down to the ground level.  Yet, we dared not move.  Our mother would stand by the window to be sure they got in their car and left and then she'd acquiesce to open the door.

Each year, again, a box full of gifts.  I'm sure my mother saw it as half an effort on their part to make up for their brother's neglect of us, although she never discussed with us why she actually did this.  What we thought, at that young age, was that we had won the prize for playing the game!

As a result, we were really good at Hide and Seek, we could Concentrate for hours, there was Jeopardy in not playing by her holiday rules, but the Price was Right as we hit the Jackpot each and every year with those gifts, always behind door number one!

My uncles?  I'm sure they headed to the nearest bar and tried to figure out why they kept losing the game.

As for my brother and me, Christmas lights have a special traditional meaning.  Christmas in the dark followed by a Christmas morning all lit up.  Pictured up top you'll see me, our cousin, and my brother in 1957...lights on, enjoying our tree and gifts, and a relative visiting (one of the many that could get in the door).

Of course, this activity (and more, but I'm trying to keep these blogs under novel size) is probably why National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is one of my favorite seasonal movies...here's the trailer for that, enjoy...and Happy Pre-Holiday!