From My Father

It was the Christmas of 1980 and I was nine years old. I remember this particular moment distinctly not because of its glaring importance, but because it was so unremarkable, so plain, and so seemingly insignificant.

I had already sneaked into your closet several days before, so I was fully prepared to act surprised upon opening the electric football game I had been waiting for. I was already envisioning the small red and gold players that would vibrate and glide across the smooth, metallic football field, following my every order, as my team marched its way to victory. I had also discovered a package of tube socks, a pair of Huffy brand jeans, three shirts, and a Litebrite, which I also looked forward to finally opening.

As was the custom, on Christmas eve, we would each choose one small gift from underneath the tree, and open them like hungry jackals. I chose a small, inconspicuous, package, wrapped without so much as a tag. I hefted its weight in my little hand; it was heavy for its size which piqued my interest, so I tore into it excitedly. Tearing away the paper revealed the smooth, beveled edges of a wooden plaque, with a brass plate affixed to the front.

Engraved upon the brass plate was a poem.

I feigned excitement as you came to me and kneeled down, flashing a knowing smile back to my father. “What does it say, Robby? Read it for us.” And then, you both watched with great interest and anticipation as I read the poem etched into the shiny surface of the plate.

“You got it from your father

It was all he had to give

So it’s yours to use and cherish

For as long as you may live

If you lost the watch he gave you

It can always be replaced;

But a black spot on your name, son

Can never be erased

It was clean the day you took it

And a worthy name to bear

When he got it from his father

There was no dishonor there

So make sure you guard it wisely

After all is said and done

You’ll be glad the name is spotless

When you give it to your son”

I’ll be honest; I didn’t get it. To a nine-year-old boy, the words had no meaning. I had never lost his watch, and was this all the cheapskate got me for Christmas?

Once the holidays were over, the plaque was placed on my shelf and forgotten. I saw it time and again, but still, the words did nothing for me; they were just words.

By the following year’s end, dad was gone. The deadbeat had left a pregnant wife and three children to be with a new family, all but forgetting what he had discarded. The pain associated with his abandonment would cling to me for decades to come.

The ensuing years were often difficult and confusing, for both a boy turning into a young man, and his mother doing what she could to maintain her sanity, and a house with now four children. As I matured and took over the role of “man of the house,” I would reread those words and finally, at some point, understood their meaning.

Forty years have ticked by since that Christmas; the wooden plaque and its brass plate, like that elusive watch, is now long gone, but the message still remains. He may have given me the name, but you made me who I am today. I’ve made my mistakes and have had my ups and downs, but I still strive to live a life—and to be a man—that you would be proud of.