My father's visiting

My father’s visiting.

There’s a picture in an old frayed book of “Bible Stories” of my dad’s of some Biblical character wrestling God all night on a riverbank. (Is it Joshua? My knowledge of Bible lore is very threadbare.) Needless to say, God wins. If you were an oddsmaker, I think the fight was heavily favored in God’s favor to begin with. God being God, though, he probably let Joshua (Or whomever; I know it’s not David – he was probably busy tending sheep or writing a psalm or getting sculpted) at least think that he had a chance of coming out on top in the fight. The story sounds very Greek mythology to me, but the picture sticks with me, very dramatic, done in deep purples and blues, the action caught in mid-struggle. Here at 3 am in Vermont I’ve gotten up from a similar Biblical struggle.

My father’s visiting.

That should pretty thoroughly encapsulate my inner riverbank wrestle right there. My father and I have very little in common. Whenever he’s around, which isn’t that often, an inner teenager phoenixes up to lock horns in ancient struggle despite my best efforts to rise above the situation. To give myself credit, I am much less reactionary outwardly then I have been in years past, but inside it doesn’t feel that way. Inside it can feel the same way it always has, as if I haven’t changed a bit. Inside, I’m on that river bank wrestling with myself, biting my tongue from saying this or that, reining myself in from overtly picking a fight, purple and blue from punishing myself for having not been evolved and serene around him this time. And my dad’s an easy mark, he invites fights. He (perhaps unconsciously) goads them on. He can be bigoted (“when will those people finally get their act together?”), he tends toward the negative and cynical (“our government’s the best government that money can buy”), he can be apocalyptic in his predictions for the future, his conversation and jokes and viewpoints are frozen and repetitive, he doesn’t really listen, he apologizes for ancient wrongs ad infinitum (ie “Will you ever forgive me for divorcing your mother?” 30 years ago, long forgotten and forgiven; “I hope you’ll forgive me for what I said about you being gay?” Again, years ago and forgiven several times every one of our visits), he assures me how much fun he is having, again ad infinitum (‘Really, dad? Fun? We’re just sitting at a table.’) The list goes on, of course, and to carry the riverbank mud wrestling to another level I’m now applying that list to me and hear a resoundingly Biblical voice intone “Judge not lest ye be Judged.” Okay, okay, you win, you win, I’m up, I’m writing, so shut the fuck up.

My father’s visiting.

And I sit here wondering a host of things, and in no particular order of importance, a series of questions comes pouring out: What can I possibly talk about with him for 3 to 4 days? How will I keep my sense of humor? How can I incrementally (or maybe all at once) let go of this inner grip? How can I state how I feel about any number of things clearly and effectively - maybe in opposition - without it having any little sting of “so there!” attached to it? How can I simply let him live his life as he wants to, as he chooses to, and not be so affected by it? How can I let him be who he is and be who I am fully around that? How can I be happy and live with a sense of ease and joy – a state I’m finding more and more is my natural state - despite whatever he may be doing or however he may be acting? How can I love him for who he is, just as he is, without any little improvements or changes I’m sure would make him better? (Oh boy.) How can I see this all as an opportunity instead of a burden? After all, I did invite him here. And I’m terminally unique in this experience.

On the subject of fathers, with the lesson a bit reversed, the other day we were having a bit of a problem with our visiting Canadian gander from across the road. To recap, he was being alarmist and always around hissing and making a nuisance of himself whenever Richard and I would be outside with our adorable and adoring goslings, Ginger and Mary Ann. Finally fed up, I asked Richard if I should turn the hose on him, a hose that had a newly bought nozzle which could inflict a powerful force. “Let her rip,” Richard encouraged. So I let her rip and it was literally like “water off a duck’s back.” He stood firm and immoveable, unbudgeable, the water pouring off of him effortlessly like bullets off of Superman’s chest. I think he rather enjoyed it. Richard and I couldn’t help but laugh. So much for forcing a solution.

So instead of wrestling out a solution with various father’s visits, eastern ways are called for, a tai chi-ish, letting defenses down, co-habitating despite differences, blah-blah-blah. Okay. We’ll see. I’ll give it a try.

It’s nearing 5 and the birds are waking up outside. I just leaned forward on the couch here for a peak out the window and saw that it’s still dark. I wonder what stirred such early morning tunes? We were supposed to have gotten a freeze last night and I can feel a slight chill at the window, but things are nice and snug here right now. Delilah, our big Maine Coone, is curled up warm and safe by my side. It’s good having her here by my left leg, a companion in my writings.

My father’s visiting.

He’s downstairs sleeping right now, as comfortably as Delilah, I hope. Dad usually peppers his conversations with complaints. I’m not sure he’s even aware of it. When he wakes and begins his morning conversations he may have a few complaints about the nights’ sleep, I don’t know. But there’s an opportunity in that - he can help me police my own conversations. Where are my complaints dandelioning up? It’s addictive being negative and complaining, it’s familiar territory, I can fit into that behavior like an old comfortable shoe. It’s kneejerk behavior; I don’t even realize I’m doing it. It can even be enjoyable. But it eventually has an erosive effect; I don’t like myself for doing it. It puts a cawl between me and life. So, thanks dad.

My father’s visiting.

And he can remind me what gifts I’ve gotten from him. A love of history and travel. A knack for story telling. He’s a good storyteller. He can exaggerate and stretch things – there’s always at least one person in each of his stories who has “tears in their eyes” - but what storyteller doesn’t embellish. A love of learning. He’s bright. There’s still a kid in him underneath that sometimes crust of fear and distrust, a pure spirit that still loves to learn new things and laugh. I love the books he’s passed on to me, in addition to the frayed blue bound “Bible Stories” they include: Minute Biographies, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, Life on the Mississippi, etc. I love the family history he linked me to through Nanna and Papaw, his parents, and their stories of times past. I love the cherry bedroom suit he gave me (really given to me by Nanna, but dad had it at his house), the bed he’s sleeping in right now. It was floated up the Mississippi and then the Ohio on a flatboat in the 19th century.

My father’s visiting.

And I don’t get him, I don’t understand him, sometimes I don’t even like him. I’m sure there are times he really doesn’t like me either, though I don’t know if he’d ever allow himself to think or say such a thing. Maybe all that’s not important, I don’t know. He’s my father. He helped give me life for which I’m eternally grateful, a life I feel I’m just beginning to appreciate to the extent it deserves.

My father’s visiting.

And I don’t know how much longer he’ll be around. And I have no idea what it’ll feel like when he’s not around.

The light is coming in through the window now and I might creep back in with Richard. The wrestling match has ended for the night. I’d say it’s a draw. We’ll see if there are more rounds to come or if the inner cease fire holds.