Hello Father: Preamble

Last year, my Dad called me. We aren't estranged, so this wasn't a monumental moment or anything needing symphonic accompaniment, so I assumed that the phone call was going to be the typical "How you doing / Need anything / How about that damn Tony La Russa" type of conversation.

He said, "Do you remember Yvonda's husband Gary?"

"No," I said. Yvonda is my cousin on my Dad's side, though I thought she was my aunt until I was in college. My aunt Connie had her in high school, so she was raised as another sibling. I still have a hard time not thinking of her as "aunt" Yvonda.

"You see, Gary was bipolar and quit taking his medicine. Then he flipped out and beat Yvonda with a baseball bat and guess he thought he killed her. So, he went out and killed himself."

"Oh my God."

"Yeah, shot himself. Found him in the alley. Yvonda's in the hospital, but they say she's gonna be okay."

I struggled to find something appropriate to say. I'm removed from that side of my family, for reasons that aren't too clear to me. I know that Dad rarely speaks to any of his seven siblings (Connie, Brenda-Gail, Tim, Johnny, Herbie, Jeffrey and Donald) unless something's wrong or it's near the holidays, but even then it's because they are in the same room with him. It's not like they embrace and truly miss each other. The reaction is closer to "Oh...you" than "Hey, how ya been." Whether it's my Dad is the one that's cast out from them, or if its his decision not to talk to them regularly, I can't speak as an authority. We've never talked about it, and I never questioned the decision then. On the holiday get togethers, when they carry-on, and drink and do whatever, I get the feeling that we (Mom, Dad, and Me) are better people somehow. We're not high society. Dad's a steel worker. Mom's a secretary (sorry, administrative assistant). We are in no greater shakes than any of the other Johnsons, but, there it is anyway.

"Well," I said. "People can really lose it without those meds."

"Yeah, that and living with Yvonda," said my Dad.

Okay, hold the judgement. He's not a hard-hearted man, he's honest. As recently as last year, Yvonda, my aunt/cousin, would send me a Valentine's Day card, so she's an odd bird to say the least, so maybe my Dad was right. So, you know what I did when he said that? I laughed.

"Well," he said, "you got something else for your book now."

I agreed with him, though there isn't a book about them. I haven't bothered chasing his life down with words because I know so little. Everything I know about him is by chance. For example, I know I have a one legitimate half-brother because of a fluke encounter at a grocery store when I was seven. His name is Jason (I think), and I have no idea what his mother's name is. That's not to say my Dad didn't tell me, I just don't remember because that was the last time I saw him. He didn't die, as far as I know, but I never asked any questions and my Dad didn't volunteer anything. And there's the whole problem of a second half-brother that may, or may not, be actually related to me, and that may have something to do with my Dad's right marriage to the unnamed mother of Jason. But I don't know for sure. I was never told for certain, I can only guess.

There's so many other blank spots of my Dad's life for me. I know he went to Vietnam and served on Okinawa behind a desk. What he did, I don't know. How he got from Vietnam to steel worker, I don't know. I don't know for certain how or when he met my Mom. I don't know when he moved out of his parents home, but he told a story once about how.

My parents came up to visit me here in Mankato, and took me and my wife out to dinner at Red Lobster. While there, my wife started chatting about her siblings and their relationships to each other. She pressed my dad into talking a bit about his brothers and sisters. And he said that it was a very "competitive" home. And that one time, he was in a fight with Johnny, and Johnny tried to hit him with a leg from the kitchen table. My dad took it from him, beat Johnny with it, and left.

He told it like the way someone talks about a small scar, nearly embarrassed over how dumb they were, but not embarrassed enough to stay quiet. And I think that's the reason why I haven't prodded more into his life because I don't know how many table leg stories exist, but I've overheard and chanced into enough to think there's plenty more. But, those stories, and all that shit-life help forge him and that's even more interesting to me, but I keep stopping myself with the same questions: "What do I do with my father's life once I learn all about it? Write about it? How can I do that without exploiting him, and his twisted upbringing or eventful life?" I wouldn't be able to shake that guilt if I sat him in front of a tape recorder and started interviewing him a-la Maus. I do think he has a story to tell, that other people would like to read, but I can't decide if that's reason enough to go digging.

But, at the same time, I want to write about him, for the very least, me. Writing is how we learn, right? And I want to figure him out, I need to figure him out. So, I can rationalize this, get past my guilt, so long as I don't make that phone call home with a tape recorder and say "So, tell me about that time..." It's going to take some time, and plenty of blogspace, and it's going to be rough at times, as I hash this out, but by god, image by image, I'm going to do what I can to better understand my Dad.


VIVA EL MUSTACHE