On Father’s Day I got to connect with the fathers in my family —except the one who matters most.
The Patriarch. That’s what we called him—in life and even in death. It’s inscribed on his gravestone.
And it suits him.
He was a mentor to many; taking care of everyone from extended family to employees to friends.
Yet his bite could be as bad as his bark. The savvy and skills that meant success in business didn’t transform him into a warm and fuzzy Teddy bear at home.
In a way my Dad was a kinder, gentler version of The Great Santini.
He laid down strict rules and expected them to be followed; he set expectations and expected them to be met.
Breaking my midnight curfew by minutes—meant weeks of being grounded. Even harder was reaching his high standards.
To future college admissions officers, a couple C’s on my report card sophomore year was a blemish on my stellar high school record. To my father it was a disaster, deserving of drastic measures—-an entire semester when I was not allowed to date, go out on weekends, or even use the phone.
I could hardly believe there were daughters who had their daddies wrapped around their little fingers. My life was the opposite—I couldn’t imagine getting my father to do what I wanted.
Plenty of times, he showed his softer sweeter side—playing baseball with me, taking me to his office, helping me with homework.
And nothing made me happier than making him proud of me.
Although I knew he loved me— he also intimidated me.
My mother was my comfort, my confidante. When she died at 41, my father seemed less than a super-hero for the first time.
He was so capable of so many things. Yet like a typical man of the fifties, he was ill equipped for my mother’s job— raising 3 teenagers in the sixties and seventies.
Still, he did it incredibly well, and he did it alone. He never remarried, he told me once, because he didn’t want to risk jeopardizing his relationship with his children. There was never any doubt about his focus—-we knew we came first.
I think my mother is mostly responsible for the person I became; yet I only had her for 18 years. After that, until he died 10 years ago, my father was my only parent and my main influence.
No one taught me more about having a fierce love for your children; no one taught me more about family; no one taught me more about faith.
And more than anything else, no one taught me more about what you are capable of doing after you say: I never signed up for this.
This brought tears to my eyes. A wonderful tribute, real and heartwarming and heartwrenching. I was for sure daddy’s little girl, he was the one who picked us up at a Duran Duran concert and tried to get my friends to stop saying “like” and “you know.” What great photos.
Thank you for your post. Talk about not signing up for this. I was on the Seaside Boardwalk (NJ) with my wife and 3 kids (2 girls) this week-end. They are all under the age of 6, and I was petrified thinking, “It’s my job to keep them all safe”. Your dad sounds like a stand up guy from an era that is sadly slipping away form us.
Very Inspiring,
Dave
Loved this piece. Loved the man.
THanks so much Nicole–I so appreciate knowing this moved you. How wonderful that my words could touch your heart—the way your words also touched mine.
Dr. Dave, You really summed up succintly and honestly the message of my last two posts—both themes about fatherhood and how men handle the responsibilities of family.
I don’t know that my dad would ever have been able to express the scary side of how he felt as you did—I see that as an indicator of how men have evolved from his time to yours. And though his era has definitely slipped away, there are still many stand-up guys around—obviously including you.
So thank YOU for sharing the feelings of a caring father on Father’s Day—and I’m so glad you reached out from cyberspace to connect.
Thank you. For both.
Beautiful column!
Thanks so much, Debi.
I so enjoy looking at your old (and new) family photos. Thanks for sharing. You and your patriarch, sweet!!
I have thousands of photos—not to mention videos– just taken in the first 4 years of Alli’s life–so feel free to come look though them anytime. Ha ha
Seriously, thank you, I also think family photos are always fun to see, and to share.
That is true strength, commitment, and love, isn’t it? To carry on despite loss, despite not feeling or being prepared, and to enable your children to thrive? Lesser Santini or not, he sounds like an admirable man.