The One Memory of My Father That Made Me a Better Person
When my father passed, he left the world as he came into the world: Penniless. Like an infant, he entered the world, with no memories, but unlike a mature, experienced man, he left the world with no memories of his life. My father died from complications of Alzheimer’s disease.
“Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance,” which was true in my case.
My first memory was the day my father returned from Vietnam. I remember it as if it was yesterday. I remember out of the blue my mother said she had a surprise for me and my brothers but that was all she said.
It was a sunny day in the deep south. We lived in a small town in Alabama called Opp where everyone either knew you or knew of you. At that time there was only one stop light, one Sherriff, and one deputy: a real-life Mayberry.
It was one of those dog days of summer when you could feel the humidity. The only cure for those days was a bottomless glass of sweet tea. The kind of tea that was so sweet, one glass would cause a diabetic to fall into a diabetic coma.
My brothers and I had returned from riding our bikes all day, — unattended because it was the ’70s — and we were in for a big surprise. Our father was waiting for us, leaning against the back of his ’64 Pontiac Grand Prix.
Our father finally returned.
This was a great surprise because many fathers never returned from war and we hadn’t seen him in over a year. The memories aren’t as clear as I would like them to be today — age tends to have that effect on people — but I still remembered it.
I can only speak for myself, but I’m sure the way I felt about my father wasn’t too far from the way my brothers felt. We never spoke about our feelings, this was still the era of when men kept their emotions to themselves.
I would like to believe the way my father felt about me was different because I was his firstborn, and a son at that. A bond a little bit stronger than the bond between my brothers is what I imagined my father’s bond was with me. I’m not saying he loved me more than my brothers, but I was his first born.
My mother had two miscarriages. The first miscarriage was a girl who would’ve been my older sister. I wouldn’t have been the oldest offspring and I would’ve had a sister.
I’m sure having an older sibling would’ve had an impact on me but a sister? I would’ve been a different person.
Thinking back, the good times seem fewer and fewer, but they were still there. What did stand out was the bad times money-wise; those memories were forever in my psyche.
Financially strapped meant missed birthdays. Christmas’ that existed in name only — if they even existed at all. Family vacations didn’t exist. The holidays became just another day.
It meant relying on food stamps. This was before the EBT cards that hid our poverty from our fellow shoppers. Food stamps came in small books in denominations of ones, fives, tens, and twenties. We used coupons and tried to use them on double-coupon days only.
When I was in High School we used to go to the VFW hall for our monthly hual of government commodity handouts, aka free government cheese — a historical symbol of poverty. I never saw so many poor people before in my life. The truck sat in front of the VFW hall and couldn’t be missed. The words USDA Commodities was emblazoned on the side and was full of food — cheese, butter, large metal cans of peanut butter, bags of rice, canned meats, powdered milk, and even powdered eggs— courtesy of Uncle Sam.
What we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments when they aren’t trying to teach us.
But out of all the memories, the one thing I do remember is something I wish I never remembered. My father never told me he loved me, at least I don’t ever remember hearing those ‘three words.’
I’m sure he did love me though, he put a roof over my head. He made sure I had three meals, sometimes only two but never the less. He made sure I got an education. He made sure when I became sick I would recover. He disciplined me when I needed it.
Is this tough love? Or are these bad memories? Am I the only one to have childhood experiences like these?
No. This is what made me a better person. Actions of love speak louder than words and more clearer than words ever can.
I’m now a father at the ripe old age of fifty-one. It’s only now that I realize my father taught me a lot, whether the lessons were positive or negative. I find myself thinking what he would’ve done when I’m confronted with certain situations with my daughter.
When my father passed, he left the world as he came into the world: Penniless. But, like an infant, he entered the world with no memories and left the world with no memories.
My father died from complications of Alzheimer’s disease. Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. This couldn’t be truer in my case.
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