A couple of years ago, at my mother's annual Halloween party, I was approached by a "neighbor" that we've had for several years. The particular "neighbor" in question had been drinking for awhile before I got there and, as you can guess, was pretty inebriated at that point. He stopped me (at this point let me pause to tell you that I really hate speaking to people that are drunk if they're not in my immediate family or a close friend) and he proceeds to tell me, "You know, your father was a hell of a good guy."
To which I reply, "Thank you, I know he was."
Then comes the kicker. Now, I remind you that I knew he was drunk, not to mention he had lost his wife not too long before this incident, but his response still turned my blood cold and made me see red. "How do you know? You barely even knew him, I bet you hardly remember him at all." - remember, drunk, deceased wife, old man- these thoughts saved him from being beaten mercilessly.
Looking back though, I have to wonder how much of what he said is true. I know my father was a good man. He worked hard to provide for his family. He had a great sense of humor and a laugh that would fill up the room... But that's almost all I can remember...
I know that I am my father's son when I look in the mirror. Everyday I see him in the physical being I'm becoming. I know I am my father's son every time I hear a Waylon Jennings song. But I wonder how much of my personal taste are derived just from the desire to have a closer bond with the man I never really got the chance to know deeply.
I never got to have a beer with my Dad. I never got to sing "Mama's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys" with my Dad. I never got to play "Rebel Rouser" with him. He never got to teach me how to drive a stick, how to shave, or even the proper way to shake hands. I had to either learn these things for myself, from my mother (who did a brilliant job raising 3 children, I love you Mom) or from my brother (thanks for the shaving lesson, and the dislocated shoulder, jerk.) or sister.
I only have one picture of my father. Luckily, It's a family portrait taken not too long before he passed. I was sooooooo young. I wish my memory was better than it is. I've all but forgotten the sound of his voice. I can't remember all the songs he used to play for us on guitar on the rare occasion he played. I know there was one about being tickled by a bumble bee or something of the sort were he would do this laugh that I thought was just hilarious. His brother, my uncle, always had a beard or a mustache when I was little. He shaved it off a few years back and when he walked in the room I almost broke down in tears because he looked so much like dad and I'd almost forgotten what he looked like.
I miss my father. I wonder if I really am his son sometimes because of all the things I can't remember. Add to that the fact that every tattoo or piercing I get I know that he would hate. I wonder if I would still be the person I am if he were still here. I know that there would be obvious changes, but overall, I'm curious how big they would be. I wonder often if the person I've become would be a person my father would be proud of. And then I remember, the one memory that I'll cherish as long as my mind will allow me to keep it, I pray I never lose it. One night when I was 7 or 8, my father picked me up from my Scouts meeting. On the way home I told him that I was picked to do something special for the group (I can't remember exactly what it was, I believe it had something to do with refreshments) and I asked him "Are you proud of me."
I may not be able to remember how his voice sounded when he said it, but the words have never left me, never once since that night. He said "Son, no matter what you do, I'll always be proud of you. It doesn't take (Insert scout thingy here) to make me proud of you." I don't know if he knew it at the time, but those words meant more to me than anything.
Am I my father's son? Yes. Undoubtedly.
