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He had his problems, and failed me and my sisters miserably, in spectacular, cheesy '70s movie-of-the-week fashion. He once told me he thinks I'm going to hell because I'm gay. But tonight, just the good stuff.
He once stopped the car to go back and run into the middle of the road to retrieve my doll-baby, which I'd chucked out the window.
He didn't complain when I barfed all over the side of his little fishing boat. Just dipped up buckets of water to wash it away.
He gave both my sisters, my brother-in-law, and me a job when we needed one really badly.
He keeps up with his parents' families, and sends infrequent dispatches to me about reunions he's been to and various cousins he's seen or heard from.
For all his fundamentalist Christian posturing on my orientation, I know he loves me in there somewhere. He and his wife actually met me and Mrs. V. for lunch last time we were in California. I hope to repeat that scenario, many times, sans my stepmother.
I think there's a good and interesting man in there somewhere and I'd like to get to know him. My sisters don't understand this in the least, so I don't talk to them about it anymore. (I'd especially like to pick his brain on his remembrances of events in American history before I was born. He was 5 years old when FDR died and he remembers it.) But it's hard to talk to him sometimes, because at age 65 -- and when his children are 44, 43, and 41, and their mother gone 30 years -- he is still making excuses and trying to rationalize his behavior when we were tiny girls.* I've forgiven him, but I think he forgets that. I think he doesn't think he's worthy.
Well, shit, Dad, none of us is really worthy when we hurt someone badly. But we forgive anyway because it's (at least for me it was) the only way to heal, honestly and truly to heal.
Happy birthday, Dad! :party:
* No, not that kind of behavior.
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