Father's Day

I deliberately chose this picture of my dad.  Obviously, taken before I met him.  In the picture, the image of him is fading.  In my heart, the images of him will never fade.  This Christmas, he will be gone for 18 years.

Today is also the birthday of another father, my partner's father.  He would have been 89 years old.  He hasn't been gone as long as my dad so my partner's pain is still fresh and raw.

Even though our fathers are not physically in our lives, they still play a role in our lives every day.

My partner and I had different paths with our fathers.  I grew up with my father on a pedestal, thinking he was greatest dad ever.  Recently, I have had to face the fact that he was like all humans, deeply flawed and complex.  That realization  hasn't done much to revise his memory in my mind.  He still is the greatest. 

My partner grew up with some notions of his father that were not positive.  He didn't have much contact with his father in his teens.  My partner made it a priority to have a relationship with his father when he was an adult and they had a good relationship.  Recently, he has had to face the fact that some of the negative notions of his father may not have been true.  As time has passed, he is so happy that he made the effort to have a relationship with his dad, especially since now some of the history that he thought was true has been revised. 

Ironically, his father was a history professor. 

I never met his father but I have heard so many amazing things of him.  One of the most profound stories I know is how is his childhood.  He was born in Vienna.  His mother died when he was four years old and when that happened, he went to live with his maternal grandparents in Prague.  He was a young Jewish boy of 9 years old when the Germans started rolling into Prague.  His grandparents made arrangements for him to get safe passage to England.  At 9 years old, he said good-bye and embarked upon a journey.  At one point, when choosing a train to board, he almost boarded a one-way trip to Aushwitz.  When he made it to Belgium to catch the ferry to England, the ferry staff were reluctant to let him board because they were concerned he would be a Ward of the State.  Complete strangers, other ferry passengers, all vouched for him and he got on the ferry.  He was re-united with his father in London who had just fled from Czechoslavakia two days earlier.  He didn't speak English and like others in similar circumstances he was billeted with people in rural England.  The couple raised him and taught him English well and he eventually got his Ph.D in History at Oxford University.  It is simply beyond comprehension that these circumstances happened to a 9 year old boy.  Every time I even try to imagine the journey, I can not.  And this, was only one generation ahead of mine. 

My father was a veteran of WW2 but my partner's father didn't serve but I am sure that his experience during WW2 more than counts as service.  Lest we forget. 

One of the other favorite stories my partner has told me is about 9/11.  He went to his father's home on that night and asked his father "why".  His father then gave him a private history lesson that lasted about 3 hours.  Even though it was a horrible evening, my partner has this incredible memory of his father's intelligence and understanding and his thirst to share his knowledge.  His dad never officially retired from the University and kept sharing his knowledge. 

And that was only a small part of his very full life.  My partner has told me so many extraordinary stories about his father's life that I could write a book.  Maybe I should. 

Even though our father's had different paths, the one thing that we both can say for sure.  At the time of their passing, both of our father's were at very happy places in their lives.  They both lived life to the fullest and have inspired both of us to do the same. 

My partner's father enjoyed some good scotch, neat.  On his birthday and on the anniversary of his passing, my partner does a scotch salute to honour his dad.  I have really tried, but no matter how good the scotch, it tastes like battery acid to me.  So, I can't participate in this tradition.  So, I am honouring him in my own way. 

Cheers, Fred.