And I began to think. Cleaning, folding clothes and weeding does wonderful things for my mental state.
When I was a child, I had a dad. He put me to bed at night, he rough housed with us, he played hide-n-seek with us, he was the master at dodge ball. He also spent countless hours with me at the kitchen table helping me with math. He was tall, lean and handsome.
He told me I had better chances getting a date if I knew what a balk in baseball was, what it meant when deer were in rut and the significance of turkey buzzards. If the buzzards were on a deer or turkey or pheasant, it was a great hunting place. He taught me how to cast a line and he said "you will impress a man if you know about football."
He also taught me that "Once you commit, you cannot quit". A rule he later and painfully broke.
And he taught me to laugh, agitate, torment and have a sense of humor and love my mountaineers (mostly because he called them pansies).
And two of the biggest lessons that he has taught me, he doesn't even know. The importance of truth and the effects of alcohol.
My dad was adopted. The big family secret. Granted, it was a different time then. Accidentally, I found his adoption decree on the Internet, he was a love child...his father was a married man. The big family secret. It was my grandmother's dying wish that he never find out and so they went with the secret.
An army of lies.
And then one day, it was reveled. I was in college, a junior I think. He was middle age. Bad timing.
I think it was that revelation that sent him into a downward spiral that he could and would never return from. And, he chose a friend to help him get through it. Pabst was the name of his friend. Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I missed the worst of it. I was away at school. And then started my own life.
The worst fight my brother and I ever got into was the where abouts of my dad and who he was with. My brother was right.
My dad served my mom with divorce papers on their 26 wedding anniversary. He found a woman, my brother's age to marry.
And their child was Pabst Blue Ribbon.
The last time I saw my dad, he was walking into the court house in Greensburg, Pa. He was wearing a white collared shirt, blue and white striped pants. He didn't see me in the car. It was my last memory of him. He was tanned, lean and still handsome. I was glad he was late to court that day and I didn't have to look at him in there. Instead, I got to sit in the car and watch him walk in.
And while he was lean and tall and handsome, he was a mess. A very troubled person. And his counselor was Pabst Blue Ribbon.
He is still alive. Where? I have no idea. His arrest records make me think he lives in upstate Pennsylvania. Most likely in a cabin in the woods surrounded by deer and rabbits still with his friend, Pabst Blue Ribbon (that is if they still make the stuff).
A troubled soul who refused help and lost a wife, a son and a daughter. Later, grandchildren. My Walker would have loved him.
But, when the God closes a door, he opens a window. And in walks Dale, Dad number two.
Somebody once said, "boy, he got lucky, all the tough stuff was over." Oh, and they couldn't be more wrong. Weddings, divorces, moves, more moves, marriages and grand kids.
He has been a saint. And even though he has never bathed me or put me to bed or taught me about the red zone, he was there. Sitting quietly on the sidelines. He has contributed in a positive manner to every family member and certainly the grand kids.
Dale, Dad number two is my dad.
Irony will kick you in the ass when you never expect it to happen.
It was easy for me to adopt a child. My dad was adopted. Every child deserves a home, a chance and love. Sign me up. I was in.
There were no secrets in this house. None, none whatsoever. My husband was the birth uncle who became the adopted father. The biological mother was my husband's sister. Not a very uncommon situation these days. Way different than years before, way different.
We never kept one truth regarding the circumstances of the "button's family". I was never going to burden my son with the hidden truth. It was his life, his right to know about it. It wasn't my right to keep it from him.
When Franklin and I were researching wellness camps, we were startled at the the number of camps that touted, "specializing in adopted males." Later, during a therapy session, I asked the therapist about this. She confidently said that males have a hard time dealing with the fact that there mother gave them up.
Makes sense to me.
Franklin and I have been the people that have bathed, read, put to bed, taught the button to ride a bike, hit the ball, swim, eat sushi, rough house, you name it, we did it. We are his parents. Our commitment to that child will kick any body's DNA in the ass, any day, anytime.
Weeks ago, under bizarre circumstances, the button reconnected with his biological mother and siblings. We were not aware of this plan or meeting. Ironically, we discovered this through the Internet, a face book photo.
He is grown man. Or so he thinks. We would have encouraged him to make this connection later in life, when he was in a better place, when all of them were in a better place. And, I don't really know where he is or the people that he is with. But I do know, he too has a constant companion, pot and booze.
Just like my dad, dad number one, I know very little about my son anymore. I learn the where abouts of my sperm donor via the Internet and I learn the where abouts of my son via the Internet. I know nothing about the people they surround themselves with or what they do. I just know that alcohol and demons and torment haunt them during their sleep.
And I see posts where others tout, "my brother, my uncle button" and I want to throw up in my mouth. They have no idea what his favorite color is, favorite food, movie, the importance of only one sheet on the bed, the fan direction, nothing, just that they might share a little DNA.
Someday, maybe love and hope will conquer the pain of addiction.
These are the dads that have cleaned up Big messes, not little bike wreck scrapes, Big messes. These are the dads who could have walked away but really knew what it meant to "commit and not quit", these are the dads who earn love and respect and just don't expect it because of matching blood types.
So ironic that if was my adopted dad who made me want to adopt a child. I have no idea where either are and both are filled with torment. And both couldn't cope so they bolted away from the people who loved them. Unreal.
Today, I told myself to get back and think of five happy memories of all these men in my life, I did.
Sometimes I feel like my husband got so screwed over. He rescued his sister's child because she couldn't cope, and while she too chose alcohol to be her friend, in the end, my son was angry at Franklin because Franklin was not her.
Our story is very common today. Alcoholism, substance abuse and just not being able to cope is an epidemic.
But love and hope and not giving up on a commitment is also an epidemic. A stronger epidemic, one that has been around since the beginning of time.
This father's day, for all the dad's out there, here's to hope and love. And regardless of the convention of your family, may hope and love preside. And may all of you have peace in your heart.
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