Memories of my Father:
His Own Family

My parents had 3 children. I'm the oldest. Next was my sister Meagan, 3 years younger, who now has a daughter of her own (wonderful 2-year-old Ayla). The last was my brother Stuart, born five years after my sister.

It was a good life, at first. Though my parents worked hard, they had time to spend with us-- and we were a very trying clutch of kids. I'm sure we would have tested the patience of even the most moderate parents.

I was quiet, reserved and introverted, content from an early age with a book and quiet place to read. I was quiet and reserved, sometimes alarmingly so. Almost from the moment I was born, I frustrated my parents by my arcane obsessions and irrettrievable bookishness.

My sister was very different. Loud, confrontational and rambunctious, she was like a monkey when she was young, physical and wildly active. She was precocious when it came to using tools. Even today, she remains a very hands-on person

My brother was different again. He wasn't extreme in any way-- a lovable, cute kid. He's become moody in in his teenage years, but this is nothing unexpected for teenagers. Indeed, if we weren't so, you'd have to wonder. "Depressing teenagers is like shooting fish in a barrel".

Life with my father was, at the best of times, difficult. He was a hard man. Quick to anger, dangerously unpredictable, wildly impatient, always exhausted, too much alcohol, crude-- the list of problems was long and painful. If it was hard living with him and being under his authority, you didn't ever want to work for him.

In full honesty, I also remember a different man. He was proud of his children. He often stood at our doors, thinking we were asleep and watching us. I can only guess how he felt, but he showed he cared in small things and when his rough exterior allowed him.

It was hard to appreciate this when we were growing up, but as time went on, and there was some distance between him and his children, it became easier to remember the good moments. He was exceedingly intelligent, and could always be counted on to say something interesting, if not always well-considered. He was a perfectionist with work. He was occasionally thoughtful and always immensely clever.

He had great trouble with authority and trust. Blame always fell on others, and he was quick to accuse those around him. His first response to recalcitrant children was to raise his voice, which inevitably magnified small problems and created frequent and painful incidents. All too often he resorted to violence. At some times it was horrifying and emotionally scarring for everyone concerned. When it was further complicated with alcohol, we learned that it was often best to avoid my father completely. Children are clever and resourceful, and learn survival strategies. In some cases, these strategies themselves hurt and leave scars of their own.

He was a troubled man, but he had the capacity and the ability to learn. And he did. And we all grew to appreciate him for it, and I learned how complicated people can be. I learned that it's important to be realistic, and encouraging, and constructively critical as opposed to angry, and also to be balanced, and patient, and forgiving. I hope I didn't learn these lessons too late where my father was concerned. My father learned them. His task was a difficult one. But he was a very competent man, one who never shied away from a difficult task.