Fathers and Sons
ByMy father was a heavy drinker. He never formally acknowledged himself as an alcoholic, but a person who drinks daily and can consume up to a quart of liquor in an evening might reasonably be classified as an alcoholic.
Please do not misunderstand. My father was not a bad or violent man. He worked hard in a senior management capacity with a large manufacturer of men’s work clothing. His intelligence and strong work ethic enabled him to be an excellent provider for our family, permitting me and my younger sister a college education. And, throughout my life he was always there when I needed him.
I loved my father but much of our relationship was strained. Somehow, he was never able to tell me he loved me, in a way that I could believe, until he lay on his death bed in September 1992. I was 50 years old and he was one month shy of 78. I’ll be 78 in only 11 years.
Dad had entered the hospital two weeks earlier with a bleeding ulcer. His condition deteriorated steadily and our family knew he was possibly near the end of his life. The respirator tube in his throat made it impossible for him to communicate verbally and frustrated him terribly. His nurse recognized his dilemma and gave him a plastic alphabet card so he could point to letters with his finger and spell out words he wanted to say.
One week before he died, my father and I were alone in the ICU of the hospital when he motioned for me to get the alphabet card. I carefully positioned the card and supported it so he could “talk.” With incredible effort and determination he individually touched a long series of letters which eventually spelled:
Y-O-U G-O-O-D B-O-Y
H-A-V-E A-L-W-A-Y-S L-O-V-E-D Y-O-U.
Pointing to the letters was exhausting for dad. Upon finishing, he relaxed back into the bed and looked up at me with fresh tears in his eyes and a very noticeable grin on his face. I was looking back at him through tears of my own as I took his hand and told him I knew he loved me but that I had desperately needed to hear it from him. A few days later he was gone, but he left me possibly the greatest gift a son can receive from his father: I knew he had loved me and thought I was a “good boy.”
God’s message to us all is the same? He has always loved us.
What we miss is that we must first admit we don’t deserve it. Only then can we receive it.
I cried. I always loved your Dad. When I was little I thought he was John Wayne. I did not know about his drinking until Melissa lived with Anne. But I saw what you described. He was kind to me and I always liked him. I am so glad he was able to tell you he loved you there at the end. I am glad to know that happened. I like reading what you write. It is comforting.
Thanks Kristin. He was a good man but he had lots of emotional baggage (I suppose we all do) that came from a tough childhood. His parents were sharecroppers during the Great Depression and they moved a lot. I remember him telling me that when the family needed work his father would round up him and his brother and sister and they would go from house to house begging for work. I think he felt responsible for his family from a very early age and believed showing emotion was a weakness. I miss him.
I did not know Papaw was a sharecropper. I loved your Dad and your Mom. They were always so good to me. Miss them both. Weird to be the lead generation now that our folks are all gone.
POWERFUL and MOVING STORY of a Father & Son.