Op-Ed Columnist

Remembrances of My Father

By CHARLES M. BLOW

Published: June 17, 2011

Occasionally, without warning, the drunken wreckage of my father would wash up on our doorstep, late at night, stammering, laughing, reeking of booze.

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Damon Winter/The New York Times

Charles M. Blow

Bang! Bang! Bang! Beating on the door, pleading to my mother to open it. “These my boys just like they is yours!”

He was on his way home from drinking, gambling, philandering, or some combination thereof, squandering money that we could have used and wasting time that we desperately needed. Sometimes he was a stone’s throw from our house in rural northern Louisiana. As a parting gift, he would drop by to bless us with an incoherent 30 minutes of drunken drivel, crumbs that I hungrily lapped up, time that would be lost to him in the fog of a hangover by the time day broke. It was as close as I could get to him, so I took it.

It was the late-1970s. My parents were separated. My mother was now raising a gaggle of boys on her own. She was a newly minted schoolteacher. He was a juke-joint musician-turned-construction worker.

He spouted off about what he planned to do for us, buy for us. But the slightest thing we did or said drew the response, “you jus’ blew it.” In fact, he had no intention of doing anything. The one man who was supposed to be genetically programmed to love us, in fact, lacked the understanding of what it truly meant to love a child — or to hurt one.

To him, this was a harmless game that kept us excited and begging. In fact, it was a cruel, corrosive deception that subtly and unfairly shifted the onus of his lack of emotional and financial investment from him to us.

I lost faith in his words and in him. I stopped believing. Stopped begging. Stopped expecting. I wanted to stop caring, but I couldn’t.

Maybe it was his own complicated relationship to his father and his father’s family that rendered him cold. Maybe it was the pain and guilt associated with a life of misfortune. Who knows. Whatever it was, it stole him from us, and particularly from me.

While my brothers talked ad nauseam about breaking and fixing things, I spent many of my evenings reading and wondering. My favorite books were a set of encyclopedias — the greatest single gift of my life — given by my uncle. The volumes were bound in white leather with red writing on the covers. They allowed me to explore the world beyond my world, to travel without leaving, to dream dreams greater than my life would otherwise have supported. I’d pick a volume at random — G — and off I’d go: gemstones and Ghana, Galileo and gravity. It was fantastic.

But losing myself in my own mind also meant that I was completely lost to my father.

He could relate to my brothers’ tactile approaches to the world but not to my cerebral one. He understood the very real sensation of touching things — the weight of a good wrench, the tension of a guitar string, the soft hairs on the nape of a harlot’s neck — more than the ephemeral magic of literature and learning.

So, not understanding me, he simply ignored me — not just emotionally, but physically as well. Never once did he hug me, never once a pat on the back or a hand on the shoulder or a tousling of the hair. I was forced to experience him as a distant form in a heavy fog, forced to nurse a longing that he was neither equipped nor inclined to satisfy.

My best memories of him were from his episodic attempts at engagement.

During the longest of these episodes, once every month or two, he would come pick us up and drive us down the interstate to Trucker’s Paradise, a seedy, smoke-filled, truck stop with gas pumps, a convenience store, a small dining area and a game room through a door in the back. It had a few video games, a couple of pinball machines and a pool table. Perfect.

My dad gave each of us a handful of quarters, and we played until they were gone. He sat up front in the dining area, drinking coffee and being particular about the restaurant’s measly offerings.  

I loved these days. To me, Trucker’s Paradise was paradise. The quarters and the games were fun but easily forgotten. It was the presence of my father that was most treasured. But, of course, these trips were short-lived. My father soon sank back into his sewer of booze and women.

And so it was. Every so often he would make some sort of effort, but every time it wouldn’t last.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I would find something that I would be able to cling to as evidence of my father’s love.

When the Commodore 64 personal computer debuted, I convinced myself that I had to have it even though its price was out of my mother’s range. So I decided to earn the money myself. I mowed every yard I could find that summer for a few dollars each, yet it still wasn’t enough. The grass just didn’t grow fast enough. So my dad agreed to help me raise the rest of the money by driving me to one of the watermelon farms south of town, loading up his truck with wholesale melons and driving me around to sell them.

He came for me before daybreak. I climbed into the truck, which was littered with months-old coffee cups, dirty papers and rusty tools and reeked of cigar smoke and motor oil. We made small talk, but it didn’t matter. The fact that he was talking to me was all that mattered. We arrived at the farm, negotiated a price and fussed over the ones we would take. We loaded them, each one seemingly heavier than the last, and we were off.

I was a teenager by then, but this was the first time that I had ever spent time alone with him. It felt great. We drove around a neighboring town all afternoon selling melons to his friends. I got to see a small slice of his life. People smiled when he drove up. They made jokes, some at his expense. He smiled and laughed and repeatedly introduced me as “my boy,” a phrase he relayed with a palpable sense of pride. We didn’t get back home until it was dark. It was one of the best days of my life. Small gestures are easily magnified when there is nothing against which to measure them.

ALTHOUGH he had never told me that he loved me, I would cling to that day as the greatest evidence of that fact.

He had never intended me any wrong. He just didn’t know how to love me right. He wasn’t a mean man. I had never once seen him angry. He had never been physically abusive in any way. His crime and his cruelty was the withholding of affection — not out of malice but out of indifference.

So I took these random episodes and clung to them like a thing most precious, squirreling them away for the long stretches of coldness when a warm memory would prove most useful.

It just goes to show that no matter how estranged the father, no matter how deep the damage, no matter how shattered the bond, there is still time, still space, still a need for even the smallest bit of evidence of a father’s love.

“My boy.”  

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16.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) PatrickIthaca, NYJune 18th, 20118:50 amCharles,

Thanks for sharing what was obviously an emotionally difficult childhood with the rest of the world. Few truly bare their soul in a way for all the world to see and in a way that so connects with the reader. In an age of gossip, tawdry scandal, journalistic sensationalism, honest writing like this is indeed welcome. Thank you.

Of course, we all have our stories, or issues, our lives that through quirks of fate, the family we're born into, where we live, and even when we live, all come together to form the foundation that helps to make us who we are. In my case it was the death of my mother very suddenly when I was fourteen that was the biggest single game-changer in my relatively early life. I was at the age of transitioning from just seeing her as "mom" to seeing her as a person as well, when the relationship just stopped. And that emptiness has been my legacy. Still, we somehow or other fashion our own lives, through whatever challenges we may face. But we always wonder, don't we, at what might have been, had things been just a little different? Recommend  Recommended by 49 Readers 26.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) seanfair oaks,ca.June 18th, 20118:53 amEven at 55 I'm bewildered to hear stories like yours. My experience was so different and it was not until my teens when I realized that friends of mine had similar relationships with their fathers. I just assumed that everyone had a father like mine who while a tough disciplinarian became both my role model and best friend. One of my best friends would often come across this older guy who he barely acknowledged except to say hello. On one occasion they seem to chat briefly and the guy gave him a few dollars as they ended their brief conversation. It wasn't until later that I inquired about who that guy was that my friend conceded that it was his father. He wasn't ashamed of him but in a sort of matter-of-fact fashion the particulars of his parents separation was something he had come to live with.
Reading your remarks thugs at my heart in many ways now as then. My father has passed but I still miss him and can not imagine how I could have ever taken a single day of our lives for granted since he played such a large part of my maturation. Even after my parents divorced my relationship with my father continued to grow. But alas, I know many guys who have little or no relationship with their son's and it probably bothers me more than them. Not to cast dispersion's but it makes one wonder what, if any, role a father plays in one's life. Especially when you consider yours and my friend's ability to compartmentalize and extract whatever it is you could from such a pathetic relationship.
Good for you, Brother Blow, I love you and I guess God bless' the child that's got his own.  Recommend  Recommended by 21 Readers 27.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) davidSan FranciscoJune 18th, 20118:54 amEven on his death bed, my father's anger at never getting the love he wanted was visible, but not given my me or my step mother. I only later realized that I had never forgiven him for divorcing my mother and consigning her to the unhappiness and insanity I never understood. His attempts at 1950's expressions of love fell on a brick wall. It is my greatest regret now. And now a day never goes by that I don't tell my son that I love him and am proud that "he's my boy". I want to die peacefully and happy that I didn't pass along my father's "gift" at self survival, but his gift of having me work for understanding myself. Recommend  Recommended by 16 Readers 28.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) onthegroundROKJune 18th, 20118:58 amI am sitting in a cafe in Seoul, Korea, with my four-year-old son, spending a hot Saturday afternoon watching people walk by, wiping powdered sugar from his face, and reading the paper on my phone. And I have just read the last line of your column. My son wants to know why I'm crying. I have told him I read something anout being a daddy, and that if he becomes a daddy when he grows up, he will understand. Recommend  Recommended by 94 Readers 50.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) MartiMurrieta, CAJune 18th, 20119:00 amMr. Blow, my heart aches for you. My mother remarried when I was four, and her new husband adopted me, but it never felt as though he loved me. Like your father, mine didn't have an example of a good father, so he didn't know how to be one. The most hurtful was when my sister was born. I was 14, and I never told anyone how much it pained me to see my little sister climb on Daddy's knee and how he loved her so. Most father-son relationships are very complicated, but most of the time daddies especially love their little girls. Now that he is long gone, I realize that he did love me in his own way, and I am grateful that he gave me piano lessons and loved to hear me play. I was never to be Daddy's little girl, but I remember him with a lot of affection. I am glad you have been able to come to terms with a relationship that you had no control over. If he is still alive, he probably is very proud of you and what you have accomplished. Recommend  Recommended by 16 Readers 76.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) springtimebostonJune 18th, 20119:06 amWhat a beautifully poignant piece. My world is a better place today, because you have shared your hard-earned insights. Thank you, truly thank you.

You showed courage and character as a child and you are showing courage and character now. The New York Times needs more of this. Recommend  Recommended by 51 Readers 77.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) herbCovington KYJune 18th, 20119:06 amCharles -- Most of your articles make me furious. This one made me cry. Where most of us would be bitter, you find it in your heart to forgive -- that's a beautiful thing. Readers, search for the prayer of St. Francis: "Where there is injury, pardon. Where there is despair, hope."  Recommend  Recommended by 23 Readers 102.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) JOColoradoJune 18th, 20119:08 amMany, many thanks for this, Mr. Blow.

Strange, how for both of us, it was the moments, or a moment, with our Dads in a pickup that we carry with us, memories stored it a special place where they don't seem to fade in the least. I imagine that I've always known how lucky I was to have had a Dad who was always there for me...always. And long to have realized how very important that it was for me to know that my Dad actually liked me for who and what I was ... slightly nerdy, not well coordinated (but he took the time, and had the patience, to teach me to swing sooner, sooner, so I'd hit the ball), argumentative, always argumentative ... rather than a vision of who he, or my mother, might have wanted me to be. And long into adulthood, when I was careering towards divorce, I introduced my lover to him -- for approval, I now see. And he approved! He knew before I did that I had erred the first time round, although he never let on until I had seen the error of my ways. Thanks to my Dad, then, for giving a needed go-ahead to decades of happiness with the one woman who ever was and is right for me.

About that pickup truck. I was about ten, and my Dad asked if I'd like to go with him on a Saturday morning to borrow a pickup from the construction company where he worked. Sure thing! I loved riding around in a pickup, looking down on drivers of mere cars. This was tough-guy time, for a kid who wasn't very tough. When we got to the equipment yard where the truck was stored, we found a Latino guy sweeping the lot. My Dad walked over and said, casually, "Hey, Juan, how are the girls?" I was amazed that he knew a Mexican by name, much less well enough to know that he had "girls," plural, since in that day and time and place, Anglos didn't socialize with "Mexicans," as we said, or much of anyone else besides Anglos, preferably WASPs.

So as soon as we were out of earshot, I asked, "Dad, who is that guy? Do you know him?"

Casually, fumbling to find the right key for the pickup: "Oh, he's just a guy like everyone else, trying to take care of his family."

A guy like everyone else. Trying to take care of his family.

Thanks again, Dad, for showing me, not just telling me, two great lessons -- two among many -- that have made all the difference in my life.

And thanks again for all the many, many times you were there for me. Love you, Dad. Recommend  Recommended by 26 Readers 104.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) TomLake WoebegoneJune 18th, 20119:10 amMr. B:

You had different gifts born into you than your father.

He was also born, like my father, into a time when most men held affection and praise for those they truly loved but couldn't express. Men just didn't do that. It wasn't in their scripts.

We survived it and became, perhaps, better fathers for it. What's missing today is the world where a kid could cut grass, sell melons, or deliver papers. Times have changed. Our needs haven't.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there who care for their kids and not only tell them, but help them sell the melons. Recommend  Recommended by 21 Readers 129.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) JDinTLHTallahassee, FloridaJune 18th, 20119:13 amWe had those encyclopedias in our house, too. Our father bought them. I can remember him sitting in his chair, reading a volume in the early afternoon, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. I also remember kissing him goodnight, even though he was now passed out (or sleeping as an eight year old child would think), the floor littered with beer cans, the encyclopedia still open on his chest.

My dad was emotionally damaged, the product of two poor Southern sharecroppers, one in the middle of 11 children. My grandfather was a violent alcoholic demon; my father and all of his brothers left home at 17 and 1/2 to join the Navy; three of four sisters were married by 14. When her last child left home, my grandmother obtained a divorce after nearly 40 years of hell.

So, I didn't blame my father per se when I thought about his shortcomings and wished that things were different for me and my two sisters growing up. When I would rant about how awful a father he was, my mother would listen and then quietly say, "Your father is a good person.". Not a good father, but a good person.

When I married at 31, I invited my father to the wedding, even though I had not corresponded with him in years. He brought his second wife; I walked down the aisle by myself. We both pretended that everything was as it should be. There was no malice, but no reunion either. After the wedding, we went back to being strangers.

I always hoped that he would be able to redeem himself as a grandfather, but he died of lung cancer when I was seven months pregnant with my son.

I had not thought about my father on Father's Day for many years, especially now that the focus in on my husband and the wonderful father he is to our son. But I will think about him this year.

Thank you, Mr. Blow, for sharing your memories with us. Recommend  Recommended by 30 Readers 136.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) LNHBloomington, ILJune 18th, 201112:15 pmWow.

I'm reading this with tears in my eyes. I loved sports. Especially baseball. My Dad HATED sports. Once made it a point to tell me he wouldn't cross the road to watch me run a cross-country meet. In 10 years of Little League through High School, he never came to one baseball game of mine.

He also hated education, and made it a point to tell me, oftern, that I was wasting money going to college cause all they were doing was "putting those crazy ideas in your head."

And that's what he said while he was sober.

Like your father Charles, my Dad didn't physically abuse, but the verbal and emotional scars remain. At 51 I often feel like a worthless 17 year old going nowhere fast. Therapy helps. Thank God I didn't follow any of his advice.

Like you too, years later I had the best day with my Dad. He was visiting me in North Dakota, and together we drove Old Highway 10 west of Bismarck for 45 miles. There, about 15 miles west of New Salem, he told me to stop the car. "See those little buttes?" he asked. "I used to climb those in the 1950's on my way out to Montana. Wanna climb them?" Now my Dad was 70 with a bad heart, but something told me to let him enjoy it. So on a absolutely gorgeous cloudless 80 degree day, my Dad and I climbed this small butte. At the top, he said "You know, 40 years ago, I carved my name in a rock up here. Wonder if I can find it." I rolled my eyes, but I'll be doggone if he didn't find it. His name, his hometown of Barrett, MN and the year (1952). I was dumbfounded. So was he. And he couldn't stop talking about it. He had the biggest, happiest smile on his face I'd ever seen. And as we stood on the top of that butte on the most beautiful summer day you could ever imagine, he turned to me and said "You know, when I'm dead, you're going to remember this day that you and your Dad were up here as the best day we ever spent together."

He was right. When he died a few months later of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, I bawled for first time since I was a little boy. And I did remember what he said. It WAS the greatest day we had ever had together. Unfortunately, nothing else even came close.

I never really got along with my father. He never understood me, but through long talks with my Mom and my father's older sister sister, (who's still doing great at 91) I think I understand him a lot better now than I did when he was alive. I'm sorry you had to go through what you did Charles, but just wanted to let you know there are others with similar stories, others who can relate to what must be an emptiness inside you that many others can't understand.

Thanks again for sharing your story, and allowing me to share mine with you.

Happy Fathers Day Recommend  Recommended by 19 Readers 185.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) dan eadeslovingston, vaJune 18th, 201112:38 pmMy father was distant, both physically and emotionally abusive at times. And competitive with me. He was a second child and I was his first. I remember telling my therapist about the one time my father said something loving to me. It was on the day his doctor told him he had six weeks to live. He told me never to be ashamed of my intelligence, that he was proud of me. My therapist told me that wasn't much to hold on to. It was years before I realized it was more than enough.  Recommend  Recommended by 19 Readers 186.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) Bob AbateYonkers, New YorkJune 18th, 201112:40 pmDear Mr. Blow,

I was very moved by your eloquent remembrance of your father and I would very much like to remember mine, if I may on this Fathers Day eve ...

This year my Dad would have turned 100 - a week after Father's Day. Unfortunately, it will be a posthumous remembrance as he died in 1988. Yet, in many ways, he is more and more a part of my life with each succeeding year.

My Dad was the oldest of five children and his childhood was shattered upon the sudden death of his Father. At the tender age of twelve, he left school and worked whatever jobs possible. His motivation was quite simple - to help his Mother, three younger sisters and brother survive in Hell's Kitchen. No work was too menial because nothing was more important than his family.

During the depths of the Great Depression, he found work virtually every day. In 1939, once his siblings had come of age, he married my Mother and joined the New York City Fire Department; once again, helping others. Several of my earliest childhood memories were learning that my Dad had been injured in a fire and visiting him in the hospital. As a youngster, I thought that was just simply part of being a Fireman.

We shared a very special bond. As the firstborn, I sensed his responsibility of raising four children and tried helping him whatever way I could. He often worked nights at the firehouse so his days would be free to do odd-jobs. I would tag-along, helping him cleaning houses and washing windows after school or on weekends. He was talented with his hands and did fine woodworking and light carpentry – building furniture, toy chests, and woodworking projects for cash or barter. For years, our pediatrician check-ups and dental fillings were “paid-in-full” with bookshelves, personalized family photo albums and customized Christmas creches.

His philosophy of life was a simple yet universal truth - “It’s Nice to be Nice.” As a teenager and young man, I thought that was simplistic and naive. As I've grown older and somewhat wiser, I understand the wider implications of that elemental yet eloquent guidance. He practiced what he preached – his word was his bond. He taught by example all I ever needed to know about being a responsible adult, faithful husband, loving father and a doting grandfather. He was the hardest-working, most selfless man I’ve ever known.

Although not in the military, as a Fireman, he faced his own special brand of hostile smoke and fire, almost daily, for three decades in Washington Heights and Manhattan. My Dad wasn't very large - about 5 foot-7 inches and muscular - but to me, he was a giant of a Man - physically, spiritually and emotionally. I rarely recall not seeing him, just before going to bed, kneeling down and praying his rosary. Something else that the teenaged boy thought quaint but that the adult son cherishes as a symbol of the faith of his Father.

Dad was unpretentious and quite dignified – proud and articulate. His formal education stopped abruptly in the sixth grade yet his wisdom far-surpassed my degrees.

He was always my biggest fan. My fondest memory is one hot summer evening, sitting on a park bench near the Yankee Stadium. I was twenty-one, just returned from the Navy and uncertain about my future. He assured me that any organization would be lucky to get me; if not, it would be their loss. I never forgot his comforting reassurance that night.

He was the finest man I ever knew. He died in 1988 and I mourn him more with each passing year. Time doesn’t necessarily heal every wound. At his funeral, I eulogized my Dad. I’m not one to show my emotions in public but there are times that just the mention of the word “Dad” triggers a flow of emotions that is unsettling but which I have come to accept.

He is constantly with me – in my heart and thoughts. I saw my Dad three days before he suddenly died. He hugged me tightly, softly saying, “Bob, you’re a good son.” My fondest wish would be to hug him once again and tell him "You were a far, far better Father; I love you Dad." Recommend  Recommended by 19 Readers 209.HIGHLIGHT (what's this?) SteveMinneapolisJune 18th, 201112:42 pmSo many people have their stories and they have all been expressed so well. And while I always look forward to your column, this one surprised and delighted me.

My father and I also had a strained relationship, but not because of him, but because of me. You see, I am gay. He also had five other sons, sons that he related too more easily than me. But I was fortunate. Even though he could never interest me in team sports or flying airplanes, he always treated me with the same love, attention and affection that he gave to my other brothers. He tried. He really did. But I with held a part of me from him out of confusion or shame or just not wanting to upset him and I denied him the opportunity to let him understand the real me through my silence.

It wasn't until I was twenty-three that I could fully explain to him, in my own language, why I was so emotionally distant. He already knew, of course, but he listened and when I was finished he just said: "You're my son and I will always love you no matter what or who you are." We became best friends and I believe I had a special relationship with my father that my brothers did not have. After that, my partner, mom and dad would travel together and he would come to our Snowfest Party faithfully every year, leaving the warmth of Miami to visit and celebrate with us the chill of a Minnesota winter.

He's gone now. Four years ago he passed away. But to this day he still lives with me in my heart and soul. Thank you, dad. And thank you Charles for such a beautiful piece that brought tears to my eyes. Not just from reading your story, but also by thinking of mine.  Recommend  Recommended by 23 Readers