Lesions My Father Never Taught

“How beautiful is youth, that is always slipping away! Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so; of tomorrow there’s no knowing.” Lorenzo De’ Medici.

At the tender age of nine, tragedy struck me like a bolt from the blue. As I bore witness to the solemn rites to lay my parents to rest, I found myself a mere child amongst towering adults; they were like mountain peaks circled around me. Anxious whispers of, "No young soul should ever face such an ordeal", drifted like snowflakes to my ears, chilling my young body. Children outliving their parents is indeed the natural order of life's cycle, yet at my age, an innumerable throng of questions was left wandering, unanswered. The unresolved dread that clung to those who bore affection for me asked, "Who shall be his guardian and see to his upbringing?"

I grew up in a small mill town just outside of Pittsburgh, where my father toiled away in the Mill for many decades before my birth. Those were simpler times, and life was not as complicated as it is today. Everything was small townish, and you could say with pride that you worked in the mill without ever needing to specify which one.

Eddie, a man of humble circumstances, was esteemed among those who shared his path. His valiant service during the Second World War, though not a topic he frequently spoke of, revealed an inner fortitude that he carried with him throughout his life. He was an honored patron of the local legion and he often indulged in alcohol. Yet despite this, his merry disposition and fondness for comedic impressions attracted many to him. His witty jokes and lively antics, reminiscent of the great slapstick comedians of the 1950s, always left a crowd spellbound with laughter. He was beloved by many and especially by me, his son.

So often, it is the simple moments in life that come to hold the greatest significance in our reflection. While few, the summertime walks with my father remain etched in my heart and memory. The nearby trail, alive with the beauty of nature amid the metal and stone relics of recent era, was a welcome time of bonding for us. We’d pluck cattails, savoring the outdoors and the precious little time together. Amidst these interludes, Eddie recounted tales of his tireless industrious labor at the large mill where he spent many years. Through these narratives, a quiet virtue and simplicity illuminated a persona I rarely observed. Although, at my young age I had a naivete of Eddie’s work and burdens, soon an unyielding and evitable part of life would become my tutor.

Juanita, or Nita, as her friends called her, was a woman of exceptional bravery. She did not exhibit my father's kind of valor in times of war, but instead, her strength lay in dealing with diabetes--a formidable challenge in those years. While managing sugar levels in 2021 is no small feat, it was far more arduous in the 80's. To be fair, the 80's was not as tough on diabetics as the preceding decades. Thanks to the significant advancements in modern medicine in the decades leading up to the 80's, Nita was able to maintain her glucose with insulin and a strict diet. Unfortunately, when I was still very young, she lost a portion of her leg. I recall leaving out a metal car once, and Nita stepped on it, which caused a severe infection and required amputation. I was merely a child, yet I still carry some guilt about what happened. Nita was my mother, and I adored her.

Nita had a tight-knit circle of friends who would visit our house often. They would engage in deep conversations, read the Bible together, sing melodious tunes, and laugh heartily about life's mysteries. Nita would often take me to church, twice a week most times. Since she didn't own a car, she relied on her friends or my father to take her places. Despite the many challenges that she faced, she never complained about any of them. The time I spent with her left an indelible impression on me. To this day, I cherish those memories more than I can express.

One significant evening that remains vivid within the corridors of my mind is the evening we embarked on a journey to attend a "revival" at the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hall in the bustling city. This outing, filled with a sense of adventure, is imprinted upon my memory with remarkable clarity. As a young boy, with a father frequently occupied at the Legion and a mother primarily tending to the home, such ventures far from the comfort of our dwelling were rare occurrences. I recall our car journey being accompanied by spirited singing, infectious smiles, and joyous laughter. Some of the laughter was directed at my feeble attempts to join in with their melodic renditions. I can only surmise that, being in the early stages of language acquisition, my efforts were rather amusing.

Upon our arrival at the Memorial, my senses were overwhelmed by the majestic grandeur of the edifice before me. It loomed like a colossal abode, and in my youthful mind, I deemed its inhabitants incredibly fortunate. Within the vast halls of this resplendent structure, lifelike representations of uniformed men and women, along with the instruments of war utilized throughout the annals of history, were meticulously displayed. Though their significance eluded my limited comprehension, I discerned an undeniable aura of importance that commanded my reverence. After a moment of captivated contemplation, I hastened along, venturing forth with eager anticipation. Our path led us into a secluded chamber, a side room where the solemn meeting was soon to commence.

My remembrance of the service dwells amidst a muddled haze, yet certain fragmented pieces remain remarkably clear. The preacher, in the fervor of his oration, ignited a flame of passion within the hearts of the congregants. Their utterances, replete with unfamiliar expressions, echoed through the sanctuary, leaving me bewildered yet intrigued. Amidst the profound proceedings, individuals around me suddenly descended to the ground, their purpose unbeknownst to my young mind. I strained to comprehend the meaning behind such actions, though a complete comprehension eluded me. Looking back, I remember distilling the evening's experience into simple terms. In my youthful perspective, the preacher was loud, the people talked funny, and some people fell. Yet, the profundity of that evening's impact surpassed my initial interpretation. Beneath the surface of my simplified explanation, a wealth of moments brimming with curiosity and wonder lay dormant, waiting to be unraveled and explored as I ventured into adulthood. In the course of my life's journey, these hidden treasures gradually unveiled themselves, enriching my understanding and nurturing my capacity for awe and intellectual inquiry.

As our journey drew to a close, I found myself nestled in the comforting embrace of the car, my gaze fixed upon the luminous lights that whisked past in a blur. The towering highway beacons above, akin to extraterrestrial vessels in the realm of my imagination. Enveloped within the protective cocoon of my mother's presence and the company of her dear friends, I drifted into slumber, an abiding sense of contentment filling my being.

Life appeared enormous in a tangible sense, with the memorial, the statues, and the mill where my father worked. Abstractly, my life felt small and fragmented, divided into categories of Mom, Dad, adventures, family, swings, songs, friends, fun, and a vivid imagination. Life was joyful in summer, with swinging, running through clean sheets as they hung on the line outside, and bedtime tales. But all these happy moments helped me face the tragedy that was soon to transpire.

Instances of my youth bestowed upon me a profound enlightenment: youth, innocence, naivety, and love cannot shield one from the anguish and affliction of life. Despite this, there exists an antidote to despair, a substance called joy. Joy awaits discovery, to be unearthed in a revelation of what has been present all along.

“It is necessary to be strong in the face of death because death is intrinsic to life. It is for this reason that I tell my students: aim to be the person at your father’s funeral that everyone, in their grief and misery, can rely on. There’s a worthy and noble ambition: strength in the face of adversity.” Jordan B. Peterson

Eddie, my father, departed from this world prematurely, his life cut short by the cruel blows of two incapacitating strokes, one of which ultimately silenced his beating heart. Neither my mother nor I, to the best of my knowledge, were ever made aware of the mini-strokes he had endured in the months leading up to his fateful visit to the doctor. These health perils were compounded by the afflictions of his liver, a testament to years of alcohol consumption. Despite the anguish of his absence, my mind remains adorned with cherished memories of my father's presence, his diligent construction of a model airplane, and his patient instruction of a Navy song, among the countless small wonders he shared with me.

In his final days, his frame grew increasingly fragile, and verbal communication became an arduous task for him. During the last evening I spent at his side, the poignant lines of Dylan Thomas' ethereal poem, "Do not go gentle into that good night," blanketed the tapestry of emotions I felt towards him. Those verses spoke of a son's ardent love and the strength to stand against the encroaching darkness. They reverberated with a plea to my father, "Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." As a mere boy in those despairing moments, I knew nothing of Thomas or his poetry. The profound depth and truth encapsulated within those lines, unfolded before me for the first time, as a young adult.

In my young adult years, as time wove its intricate tapestry of remembrance, the words of Thomas' poem drew me back to my ailed father and our last evening. As I listened to a recording of Thomas himself reading the poem a profound sense of recognition and resonance stirred within my soul. The depth and truth enmeshed within those lines reverberated with a poignant relevance, offering solace and understanding in the face of the sorrow that accompanied the departure of a beloved father. Amid this recollection, I found solace within the embrace of those words, for they encapsulated the shared human experience of bidding farewell to a cherished parent.

The period that elapsed following my father's untimely demise is akin to a fleeting and ethereal dream, now enveloped in a haze of flickering memories. During those tender years of my elementary schooling, I sought solace in counseling sessions, for death, once a distant concept, had become a palpable reality etched upon my young mind. I distinctly recall the image of my dear mother, embodying both bravery and vulnerability, standing resolute by Eddies casket, her burden exacerbated by the loss of her leg in years prior. The fragmented memories of her solemn descent upon the casket as it traveled to into the earth weigh heavily upon my consciousness. At that moment, the shock immobilized my speech, preventing the release of tears, only to give way to their torrential outpouring in the subsequent contemplative solitude, as I mourned the irreplaceable absence of my father.

“With my mother's death all settled happiness . . . disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of joy; but no more of the old security…” C.S. Lewis

Another somber evening, etched deeply within the annals of my youth, stands out as a profound source of sorrow. It was the night Nita, my cherished mother, departed to the hospital, marking a departure form which she would not return. Mere months had passed since my father's untimely departure, and now fate dealt another blow. My mother, burdened by the constant struggles of diabetes, found herself in need of urgent medical care. As the clock ticked late into the night, I lay entangled in slumber within the neighboring bedroom, oblivious to Nita’s complication. Yet, an inexplicable restlessness stirred me from that sanctuary of dreams. A silent voice beaconed me towards my beloved mother's side.

I entered her room, guided by a single beam of light emanating from her modest bedside lamp. There, she revealed that she had activated her life alert button, summoning aid in her moment of need. After my father’s death, I applied myself to acquiring this button, through a fundraising effort sponsored at school, yet my endeavors fell short of the required amount. In a fortuitous twist of fate, the school, sensitive to the hardships my family had endured and the profound loss we had suffered, extended their benevolent hand to fill the void that lay before us. Through their generosity, we obtained the lifeline that would grant me a few precious moments of additional time with my mother, an invaluable gift that eased the burden of the coming loss.

I still recall the instance when the school, in a display of immense pride and commendation, presented me with the button during an assembly. The surge of gratitude and purpose that coursed through me in that moment propelled me homeward, eager to share this gesture of human kindness with my precious mother. As I revealed their act of compassion, her tears of joy mingled with tears of pride, forever etching that scene upon my heart. Those profound lessons in empathy and compassion, ingrained within the very fabric of my being, serve as an unwavering testament to the inherent goodness and generosity of the human spirit.

In the aftermath of my parents' untimely departure, a multitude of revelations emerged, casting a new light on the intricate tapestry of my personal history. I was but a tender five-year-old when I first learned the truth of my origin, from Nita and Eddie. The woman whom I had lovingly addressed as sister, was, in fact, my true birth mother. Circumstances had led my grandparents to adopt me, their hearts filled with compassion, as Lori, my birth mother, was a mere sixteen when she brought me into this world. It was a decision reached in earnest collaboration with Lori, my paternal father, Juanita and Eddie. Though the precise details remain elusive, the weight of the situation was undoubtedly strenuous, for all parties involved.

Sometime before the revelation of my birth, Lori left the house never to return. With the passing of Nita and Eddie, Judy searched for Lori, but she could not be found. Years later I found out the reason Judy and I could not contact her; she was in a rehabilitation center. Judy did not have knowledge of this and therefore assumed her deceased. In this time of upheaval, Judy, with a heart overflowing with kindness, willingly embraced the role of my guardian, offering me shelter and solace.

Prior to the tragic loss of my parents, I had spent cherished weekends at Judy's home, joyously engaging in play with Jim and Jeanna, my older companions who later became brother and sister to me. They preceded me in age by 10 and 8 years respectively. These shared moments stretched through the passage of time, weaving a familiar bond that made Judy's intervention appear natural, albeit far from easy. The abrupt and profound absence of my loving parents inflicted upon me an acute sense of abandonment, a heavy burden upon my young shoulders.

The experience of abandonment is a somber reality that befalls many children who have undergone the kind of profound losses I previously mentioned. In the recesses of my heart, I harbored the steadfast knowledge that Eddie and Juanita were not to be blamed for their departure, for their actions were not borne of neglect or callousness. On the contrary, I remained profoundly grateful to my birth parents for the selfless choices they made on my behalf. Prior to the passing of Eddie and Juanita, the notion of abandonment had eluded my consciousness. It was only when I embarked upon the journey from my first childhood abode to a wholly distinct one, replete with a new mother and two siblings, that the stark reality of abandonment took hold.

Bearing the weight of abandonment also instills feelings of being an "other," an outsider within the concept of a different familial realm. Despite the genuine efforts of all members of this new family to embrace me as one of their own, I grappled with an inner sense of inadequacy, this being a personal struggle that continues to ebb and flow throughout my life.

Amidst the ebb and flow of life's unpredictable tides, the chapters that unfolded directly after the events of loss proved to be a testament to the resiliency of the human spirit. They were marked by abundant moments of happiness, joy, and laughter that radiated through my existence. Even now, as I explore the richness of life, I hold steadfast onto the knowledge that goodness prevails.

Among the milestones that grace my journey, I find solace and pride in my pursuit of higher education, culminating in the fulfillment of earning a degree. The enduring embrace of a woman I hold dear, as we tread the path of marriage together, engenders a profound sense of warmth and fulfillment within me. Additionally, the bonds forged with fellow men, whom I regard as brothers, serve as a testament to the transformative power of meaningful relationships.

In the face of setbacks that frequently accompany the heartache of losing one's family in the tender years of existence, the confinements of a middle-class milieu, and the absence of a steadfast male mentor during formative stages, I have embarked upon a remarkable journey. I, as a humble and unassuming individual, find myself traversing the realms of an ordinary life. And yet, the extraordinary lessons sown within me, nurtured amidst life's trials and tribulations, have endowed me with the fortitude to navigate through the vicissitudes of arduous events that have since unfolded before me.

It is my perspective that adults sometime forget the importance of the past and what it not only can teach us, but what it can help us to remember. Remembering puts into perspective the world we live in and what should be important to us, among all the things we deem important. Lest we forget the power of awe, wonder and the strength gained from being vulnerable. I hope we all see the discovery of childlike wonder and how it can renew the soul, infusing life with new meaning. Let us not forget the importance of wonder and awe in our own lives, for it is the well spring of joy and purpose.