Like Hugging a Tree

I recently commented on a friend's wonderful post about her father. As happy as I was for her, I must confess there welled up within me a terrible sadness. My dad died in August 1989. (8-9-89) There is no opportunity for resolution for us, but there is great motivation to be sure that no other chapter in my life ends that way. I wrote this back in 2002.

Like Hugging a Tree

My dad was born and raised in Canada. He moved to this country when he was sixteen. Not much is known about his childhood. Supposedly he was born a twin, but the twin did not survive, nor did the record of his existence. Dad was small enough to sleep in a drawer when he was an infant.

I have pictures that show him with a dog. He almost looks happy. He was made to play the piano, but hated it. They were too poor to have horses, so Dad rode cows for entertainment.

The pictures of when Dad and Mom were dating were of friends at the beach and around sharp cars. Dad was always surrounded by women. Recently my eighteen-year-old daughter described him as a “stud.” I guess he was.

Dad was devoted to his work. For as long as I was around Dad worked for Columbia Gas. He had no education beyond a quarter of college where he flunked Chemistry and never went back. This didn’t hold him back much. He moved up the ranks to some vice president position, or perhaps he was an assistant to a vice president. My memory is little fuzzy, because by then I was out of the house and married, focusing on my own family.

When I was in late elementary school Dad started traveling for the company. It wasn’t all the time, but it seemed to be increasing. Mom took a part-time job at the local library for about a year then. By the time I hit junior high school Dad began to travel weekly. He would leave on Mondays and be back Friday afternoons. I didn’t see him much on the weekend because I started having my own life. When I was home his nose was in a paper or on his chest, taking a nap.

Dad wasn’t very mechanically inclined. He didn’t repair things. He didn’t tinker. He loved his lawn to look nice and would spend a lot of time ridding it of weeds and making sure it was greener than anyone else’s around.

When I was in High School Dad developed a crafty side. He began making pine cone wreathes. He took orders for varying sizes. I don’t know where or when he developed this interest, but he was good at it. This hobby of sorts (and source of extra income) afforded an activity for Dad and I to work on together. As far as I can remember, he only asked for my help. We would go to different places (like the cemetery across the highway) and pick up the cones. I enjoyed doing that with him. Sometimes we wouldn’t find much of anything and just ride our bikes around.

Dad was the one to teach me to drive. Really, I think of my two parents, he was just the braver to ride with me. He was always telling me how he felt I was going to drive into the ditch. He also taught me to parallel park. He started with broomsticks in cinder blocks. When that was mastered he upped the ante a bit by first parking his work car in front of me and then at the rear. Fear motivated me to learn quickly. I could just see me creaming his car. I passed that part of the test with flying colors.

The women all seemed to love Dad. At parties, when I could sneak a peak (we were always banished to our bedrooms or the basement), I would see them hanging on him and laughing too loudly at his jokes and antics. He was always drinking and liked to see other people drink. When I was in college and my parents lived in Pennsylvania, Dad was in a car accident and charged with a DUI. As I remember the story, he played golf with the judge and pretty much got out of any fine or trouble.

Dad loved to golf. That was one of the things he and my husband had in common. My mom’s sister and brother-in-law had bought a house in a town in Arizona that was a retirement community known for its golf courses. Mom took up golf and they would go out together. They traveled a lot in those last few years of his life, but always looked forward to retiring in Green Valley.

Cancer killed my father. Or was it pride? Cancer was discovered in his bladder and rather than going through an ostomy surgery and having an external bag, Dad opted to go with chemotherapy and radiation. This afforded him about an extra year through remission. The cancer returned and with a vengeance, attacking his lungs and his brain.

In July 1989, Dad had a severe seizure. I went to visit. He was pretty incoherent. He had lost so much weight he didn’t look much like my dad. One brief moment on that visit Dad seemed to come out of the fog to give me wonderful advice and encouragement. Then just quickly as it lifted the darkness descended. He was gone six weeks later.

For all his flirtatiousness with other women, I don’t remember much tenderness or affection at home. He would kiss Mom and I would occasionally see them hug. But they never really seemed happy while I was home. The pictures of their travels seem to show them as cozy couple, smiling for the camera, in embraces that hinted at love and affection.

I remember giving hugs and kisses, at night, leaving for outings, or going away to college. Hugging my dad was like hugging a tree: stiff and totally unreturned, leaving me feeling empty and alone. I guess that’s why I’ve kept a tape of one our last conversations for all these years. When Dad called to say that the cancer had returned in May of 1989, I pushed the record button on the answering machine. In that conversation where he described only having months to live, my dad told me that he loved me. I have not only a piece of his voice, I have the words and they are precious to me.

Was it because of his upbringing? The alcohol? Or some other secret he took with him into death’s dark abyss that caused him to withhold gentle and warm embraces from me? I wonder. All I know is this, whether I am giving or receiving, no one will ever say hugging me is like hugging a tree. We all need tenderness, and affection. The world is too cold and hostile a place to send a child without the assurance of your love and encouragement. Make sure you really hug your child today!