Dads and hard choices

My Dad and I, late 60’s

Good morning everyone.

it is a beautiful sunshinny morning,

here in my beautiful ugly.

I am off this week,

Spring Break is vacation for me.

I think you all know,

I am moving,

at the end of April.

So, right now,

I am giving things away.

I am sending clothes to,

various charitable organizations,

I am pairing down,

dishes, linens,

eventually books,


I am culling,

and of course everyday,

means going through things,

that remind me of my mom


and my dad.

I don’t talk much about,

my dad.

He was a complex man.

Depending how long you had,

known him,

you might find him,

extremely charming,

or really not.

The last ten years,

or so,

of my dad’s life,

were full of conflict,

depression, ill health,

and addiction.

He was argumentative,

and he could be,

and was,



He was very far from,

the man I knew,

in the photo at the top of the post.

My dad,

had a horrible childhood.

He made many,

questionable choices,

in his life,

we all do, they just don’t always have, the same consequences.

The best choice he ever made,

was marrying my mother,

she was his champion,

she loved him,

totally, passionately,

and unconditionally.

Dad and I had,

an excellent relationship,

until I became an adolescent,


I stood up to him,

and questioned his opinions,

his choices,

I grew angry at him,

and I saw my mother,

suffer and I suffered,

from the result of those choices,


the very real ugliness of,


Of course, I also,

loved my father,

he knew lots of things,

he knew lots of people,

he was charming,

he was handsome,

he was smart.

but, he was also nasty,

he would pick fights,

at Christmas,

with family,

with my friends,

for years, I wouldn’t,

bring friends home,

because I always wondered what kind,

of mood he would be in.

My dad died at fifty-eight,

of a massive coronary,

it was his third.

My mother became a widow,

at fifty-six,

she survived him,

by twenty-three years.

I have complicated feelings,

about my father.

I am in my fifties now,

I’ve made some meh choices,

in my life.

I understand much more,

about addiction,

I know that,

people who have,


are people who are,


pain, abuse, past horrors,

dad talked some,

about his childhood ,

but never, all of it.

I suspect it was too painful,

and he,

like many men,

of his generation,

probably thought,

he would have come off,

as weak,

admitting pain,

asking for help.

I have long suspected that,

writing about my father,

warts and all,

would exorcise a few of my demons.

Of the emotional types,

of the types who can’t sustain,

a committed relationship,

the ones who sabotage,

said relationships.

I couldn’t write about these,

things while my mother,

was alive, I don’t know if I can,


but I will try.

My father wasn’t a monster,

he did not beat me,

he did not abuse me,

he tried to make me tough,

to equip me for a difficult world,

he loved me,

he messed me up,

a little but, I know,

he did the best he could,

with what he had.

I wonder is it ok,

to write, to tell the story of our parents?


I think it is, it is after all,

it is,

our origin story.

I don’t really tell lies,

I am like my mom,

that way,

I sometimes embellish,

to protect people’s feelings,

but I don’t lie.

As I embark on this journey through,

the past,

I do wonder if I should,

but I think I must.

To be clear,

I don’t write about this to,

solicit sympathy,

I have heard people’s stories,

so many much worse,

than mine.

I do this for me,

so I can finally love,


as she deserves to be,


Later girls,


By Bookish Butch

I am a bookish butch in my very early fifties. I live in Montréal and always have. I used to run a small used bookstore. Reading keeps me sane. My latest jiggie is photography, book project in the works, living the dream

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