A Long Time Ago

I can remember it clearly even though it happened over 50 years ago. Memories that endure are usually those that have some emotional aspect to them.  For that reason, this episode from my childhood must have profoundly impacted me and has stayed with me all of these years.

It occurred in the front yard of the home in which I grew up in Salt Lake City.  It must have been fall because the grass was still green and I was playing with a football.  To be clear, I was playing football with myself; throwing the ball into the air and then catching it, like a quarterback throwing to a receiver.  I likely was pretending that I was Roy Jefferson, Ray Groth, Speedy Thomas, or some other University of Utah football player of that era.

My father had four season tickets for many years to U of U home football games that he or his company paid for.  He would give two of them away to different valuable customers, and would keep two for himself.  I guess Mom wasn't interested in going because she never did. 

I guess this was a way to do something five times a year with me.  He and I would sit eight rows up on about the 49 yard line, eating pistachios given us from the cigar-smoking fellow in front of us on the seventh row, on brisk autumn afternoons, and cheer for the Utes.

But on this afternoon, I was playing football with myself.  My siblings Tom and Darlene had long since married and were living elsewhere.  There were a few guys in the neighborhood that I would occasionally play with, but most of my free time outside of school and church was spent alone.  That was my reality.  It was just the way things were and I didn't know it could be any different.

That day, I asked my Dad if he could play catch with me.  I don't remember any reason that he gave, only that he said no.  Why not?

I had a baseball glove growing up and usually had a softball.  I remember throwing the ball onto roofs and catching it as it fell, kind of a fly ball.  It was a way of playing catch with myself as I played alone.  I remember, less clearly, asking Dad on numerous occasions to play catch with me, but I never recall us doing that.  Perhaps I don't remember those occasions as well because they were absent the emotional impact of that football day. Perhaps it is because of a lowered expectation that he would actually play catch with me.

I remember being taken to Rancho Bowling Alley as an eight-year old by him.  I remember how proud I was that I bowled a 56.  That was in a day where there were no gutter bumpers to keep the ball in play.  I was so young.  But even though he bowled weekly in a league, that was the only time we went bowling together. 

Other than the football games and the Saturday morning bowling trip, and occasionally visiting older people in the capacity of LDS home teaching companions, I don't recall us doing things together, a father and his boy.

To be fair, my Dad was one of eight children.  The stories told by my mother and my siblings of my grandparents usually dealt with what a mean, bitter man his father was, how his father showed favoritism for other siblings, how his father abused his wife--my grandmother who my father adored, and how his father would beat him with the "coal shovel."   

Also, because smoking was disobeying a commandment of the LDS Church, he felt shame for his habit and sought to keep his cigarette use hidden and in secret.  I have wondered if that was a determining factor in why he didn't do things with me, like go fishing or be taken on a business trip.  But I have also wondered if there was something about me....

I also realize that for his generation, parenting was something usually done by the mother and that there was not such a societal or Church focus for fathers to be engaged with their children.  

But I have wondered if all of these reasons are merely excuses for a Dad who didn't want to interact with his son who desperately needed to be attached to him.  I have wondered if he was incapable of really loving, or was I not worthy of his love.

Through my own work being in therapy, and now sitting in the therapist chair, helping others with their family of origin issues, I have realized just how this lack of connection, this abandonment, affects them in many ways, and has affected me as an adult.  When I talk with clients about their abandonment issues and how they manifest in certain dysfunctions in their relationships, I realize how close to home that is for me.  

I have wondered if I had been fathered differently if I would have been a better father to my two boys.  And I wonder how my boys will be as fathers to their boys.

And so here I am, a 60-year old, understanding where many of my abandonment feelings originated, yet wistful about my upbringing by my father.  I have mourned the feelings of not having a father who loved and cherished me. I have wept over that loss and how nothing can be done to change the past.  I have surrendered my past to God knowing that this abandonment was part of my journey and was an important factor in becoming the sensitive, caring, empathetic person that I believe I am today.  But the memory of that fall afternoon so long ago still hurts.