My father died at the age of 43. I was only 17. My memories of him are skewed by time and have been, occasionally, laden with deep emotions. He was a brilliant, charming man who was an alcoholic—it taints all of my memories.
My father was the Commonwealth Attorney of a small rural county in Virginia. He often took me to work, and I remember a time when I actually went to court with him. I was seated up near the judge, in a big wooden chair right next to the Sheriff. It was a small community and everyone knew who I was and accepted my presence. I was a cute little blonde girl, sweet and well-behaved, probably talkative; the oldest of five and for 15 years, the only daughter.
As I grew up my father continued to take me along on outings, though I never knew why. It could have been a way to help my mother out, by removing one of the four children underfoot. Or, more likely, it was an excuse to get out and socialize without looking like he was making mischief. I considered it a treat in some ways, though it was often an anxious, knuckle-biting ordeal. I used to go to his office after school and can remember the several homes we would visit after work. I see myself sitting in the corner, watching the adult conversation, without really having any sense of connection or purpose. I imagine I was bored, but I can’t really remember much more.
By the time I was a teenager, I was often his designated driver and I think he probably drank a little more on those occasions. I loved him though I was a little afraid of him, so I could never have said no, or asked him not to have that last drink. I always did what I was told and at home, I worked hard to make myself invisible—escaping to my room whenever possible and losing myself in books.
There are pleasant memories, too. My father was an excellent cook and often prepared the big Sunday dinner while my mother sang in the choir at church. He’s the one who taught me to make gravy with the drippings from the roast beef or lamb. I remember him talking to me about seasoning carefully (my mother used too much salt), and how to avoid lumps in the gravy. On Sundays my grandparents would join us for a large midday meal at a table set with the cutwork linen tablecloth and napkins, silver, and the good china. There must have been an undercurrent of tension that I felt, but didn’t understand. Much of my childhood held that sense of quiet tension….as if an explosion was pending. But it never came, not in that fashion.
My father died of a melanoma, six months after the initial diagnosis. The mole on his shoulder was removed along with a piece of his collarbone and the lymph nodes. The photos from that Christmas show a pale gaunt face and a posture that revealed the seriousness of the surgery. From there he deteriorated rapidly, but I’m not sure that any of us realized he was dying. It was never talked about. I was away at boarding school, in my senior year, and couldn’t see his decline. He attended my graduation and went into the hospital the next day; he died within a week. It came so suddenly, bringing on grief and guilt in proportions I couldn’t deal with. My intermittent hate of my father’s behavior, mixed with my love for him, was too much for a 17-year-old to comprehend. Any regrets I had were lost in the wind; it was too late to make amends, to have that honest conversation or to tell him I loved him. And it has taken many years to work through that. What I understand today is that he was a decent man who had struggles and weaknesses, as we all do. He lacked the compassion and support he needed in dealing with all that life had given him. I like to think that he was trying to become a better father.
I’ve come to realize, with time and my own experiences as a parent, that he did a pretty good job of fathering. He was affectionate and full of life, well respected and well liked. I’ve had to forgive him for the hurt his drinking caused. I’ve articulated my understanding of what it must have been like for him. I literally wrote a forgiveness letter to him when I was in my 30s; writing all those things I wanted to say to his face but never dared. It was about forgiving and embracing the loving memories I have of him. He was my father; he showed up and he gave affection. He disciplined when needed and stepped back when it was appropriate. Yes, there are moments I’d rather forget but I have to accept the whole man.
I’m 56 now, 13 years older than when my father died. For the first time in a long while I’ll take some time to reflect positively on my father. And, maybe I’ll share this with my sons, one of whom is a father. They never knew their grandfather so I have the delicate task of shaping the story to give them a balanced picture of who he was. First and foremost, he was my father and I loved him.
Walker Thornton is a Virginia-based writer and blogger.
