Father's Day is just around the corner. I've largely let it slide by because I lost my dad 20 years ago but, since I recently lost my oldest brother, I thought I'd take a little time to pay my respects to two men I wish I had known better. Time has a funny way of messing with your mind. Sometimes I think it literally grabs hold of your head and shifts your field of vision so that you see the past at a different angle. And while others may be shivering and quaking before that "Oz the Great and Powerful" image many of us held of our fathers, time's little wrench of the neck is constantly calling the "man behind the curtain" to my attention--a man that often ends up being completely human, admirable and even lovable when I stop filtering what I heard and starting listening to what he said.
I'm the first (and perhaps only of my father's children) to admit that growing up with my Dad wasn't easy. He was 50 when I was born. I'll be 50 in just a few short months and I cannot possibly even consider what impact a child would have upon me at this stage of my life much less three sons from a previous marriage, two from his current marriage and one on the way. In my mind, the only children I could cope with would be wind-up automatons that venture out into the world on their own and only return--like boomerangs--once they've finished college and secured high-paying jobs with long-term prospects.
With a 50-year difference in age, I like to say that Dad and I didn't have a generation gap, we had a generation gulf. One that was squarely located in the fashionable--yet volatile--seventh level of hormone hell. Why? Dad had his mid-life crisis, Mom went through menopause and my sisters and I all went through puberty AT THE SAME TIME. Together we rode a five-year roller coaster of hot flashes, mood swings, rebellious tantrums. And yet, it wasn't all bad. In fact, thanks to the neck twisting antics of time, I've come to appreciate my father more and more over the years, and I have discovered his surprising, endearing and spellbinding gift of storytelling.
With his colorful and varied employment history, my father had plenty of tall tales to tell of brushing soldiers with famous faces and becoming mired in outrageous situations. Like the time he and a few friends were arrested in Havana, Cuba after failing to bribe a crooked traffic cop during Batista's reign. Dad's dark, Portuguese complexion guaranteed him a longer stay behind bars than his friends and he nearly missed the boat when it sailed on to Los Angeles where he worked at the Beverly Hills and played cabana boy to Sonja Henig, Buster Crabbe, Johnny Weismuller and other stars of the day.
My favorite story, however, has always involved my oldest brother Dodge (who we lost last year). Dad and his first wife Barbara, a prominent socialite with impeccable family connections, were living in New York at the time. Dodge, who was probably around 5 or 6 then, had been invited to the Rockefellers' New York City home for a children's birthday party (a cousin on his mother's side) on a Saturday afternoon. Dad had dropped Dodge off and give him strict instructions to meet him outside at 4 p.m. for the trip back home.
I suppose Dad found the chore a little annoying since he typically practiced his religion on Saturday: the edification and perfection of the soul through lawn care. Now, for Dad, lawn care required certain vestments, those being his nastiest, rattiest pair of paint-stained khakis, torn tennis shows, and a cotton, button down shirt that had probably been purchased for Millard Filmore's inauguration.
Dad (always prompt) returned to the party by the stroke of 4 but Dodge was nowhere to be found. After a few minutes, Dad (always impatient), screwed his courage to the sticking point, brushed a few stray grass clippings from his shoes and rang the Rockefellers' front bell. Dad, mortified at his appearance already, could not escape his reflection in the highly polished door and was busy weighing the benefits of abandoning his child when the butler answered the door.
"I'm here to pick up Dodge," Dad confided. "Could you just grab him, tell him it's past time to go, and bring him down?" To his horror, the butler insisted on ushering him in to the entry hall and announcing his presence to Mrs. Rockefeller. Before Dad could stop him, the butler was well on his way up the grand staircase to retrieve the said Mrs. Rockefeller and the wayward Dodge.
By this time, Dad was desperately searching for any piece of furniture large enough to conceal him when he heard Dodge's voice--indignant with disappointment. There, descending down the grand, curving staircase, Mrs. Rockefeller herself--looking as if she had just stepped away from a society ball instead of a child's birthday party--was busy mollifying an irritated Dodge who, tugging on her expensive, taffeta gown, kept griping, "How come I didn't get a present, huh? How come?" Whereupon Dad introduced himself with a thick Mexican accent as our hired gardner and part-time chauffeur who was here to "take the little master home."
Happy Father's Day Dad. As time goes by, I'm learning to love you more.
