Father’s Day 2017: A Lucky Woman

I have two Dads.  Yes, it is true.

Dad #1:  Norman married Mary Jo in December 1967.   He played in a band with some other guys he knew from school.  He was the front man.  She was smitten by his talent, good looks, open personality, and his ability to make her feel incredibly special.   He fell in love with her big blue eyes, long brown hair, and her quiet demeanor.   They were  still kids when they married, and welcomed me, their first-born, home.  She was still in high school and only 17 years old. But this was all OK because they loved each other, and they loved their baby girl. To them, everything was perfect.  Soon, it became evident that playing music was not going to cover the rent and the rest of their obligations, so he went to work and played music on the weekends.  She stayed home with me, wanting to be there as I grew up, not wanting to miss a thing.  Two and a half years later, my brother came along, increasing our family size to 4.  To this day, I don’t know the entire story of how it all fell apart, but 6 years after they married, they were divorced.

Dad #2:  Bob met Mary Jo soon after the divorce.  He was the opposite of Norman.  He was a farm boy and he competed in rodeos.  He was handsome, rugged, and a little dangerous.  He was also nearly 2 years younger than she was.  After a time, Mom brought him home to meet us.  I’m certain he was nervous, but I was 5 and Jason was 3 and we charmed him.  Soon, he was not only in love with our mother, but with us as well.  In December 1974, they married.

As I grew up, having two dads could be confusing.  Not many of my friends had divorced parents so I was forever explaining our family dynamic.  I was very careful not to hurt one or the other’s feelings when speaking about each of them.  You see, when Bob married my mother, we instantly began calling him, “Dad.”  So, therein you see the confusion. When I mentioned my  “Dad,” I found the need to identify which one.  Yet, in spite of the confusion, there was much to gain from this extended family situation. There were weekend visits with Dad #1 and the day-to-day involvement of Dad #2.  There was joy, there was sorrow, and there were times when I wanted to leave one or the other.  They were both flawed.  They were both perfect.  They each had their own set of skills and talents, and neither of them were alike.  What some saw as a challenge for a young girl, I only found opportunity.  Let me explain…

From Dad #1 came my appreciation of music, the development of my own talent, and a true love of playing guitar and singing.  He is the emotional dad.  It is easy for him to show how he feels.  He was always affectionate and even still, he has an abundance of hugs, kisses, and “I love yous,” to share.  On the flip side, he is very moody.  He is always very up, or very down.  There is no happy medium.  As I got older I realized that if he was in a downward turn, I had to take his mood with a grain of salt.  I also know now, that I can be the same way sometimes.  He is a good man.  He has a great capacity for love; evident by the fact he has had 5 wives over the course of his life.  All of them different, but none like my mom. Today, he is unattached and that is the way he prefers it. In December 2015, at the age of 66, he suffered a stroke that affected both sides of his brain. He does not have any paralysis, but he is a little unsteady on his feet. The stroke impacted his ability to communicate effectively, and severely impacted his short-term memory.  He has trouble forming the correct words in a sentence, or to describe his thoughts.  A condition known as aphasia. Even after therapy, he has gone as far as he can.  He and I used to have intelligent conversations; politics, religion, etc., but not anymore.  That part of him is gone. Yet, his long-term memory remains intact.  He can still play his guitar, and he can still sing. He can still tell me stories of his growing up and he can still laugh and he can still love us all.  All my creativity came from him.  I love him as much as ever, and I’m proud that he is my Dad.

Dad #2 was raised on a farm and all that implies.  He was mechanically inclined, loved his car, drove fast, and the best part…he wore a cowboy hat!  I was fascinated with him as a young child.  He was fun and strong and quick with a spanking if I needed it (which wasn’t very often).  He was a bronc and bull rider in rodeos that traveled around the area, and from a young age, I decided I would be a barrel racer.  Yeah, that never happened, but I learned so much from him!  Spending time with him and my grandparents on their farm, taught me an appreciation for the earth, the rain, and the animals.  Horses were my favorite.  I was never afraid of them because early on, Dad taught me not to be.  He taught me to respect them because they were bigger than I was.  When I was twelve years old, Dad coached my first softball team.  I hadn’t played sports before, at least not organized ones.  He pushed me hard so as not to show favoritism to his daughter, and as a result, I became an adept 3rd baseman.  He taught me the right way to stand and to hold a bat, depending on where I wanted to hit the ball in the field. He taught me how to get in front of a ball coming down the third base line, or between me and the short stop, and not to be afraid of it, no matter how hard it was hit.  During the week there was practice, with the team and at home, just Dad and I.  Fielding.  Batting practice.  Just playing catch.  It was during those times that I confided in him, learned to trust him, and became his real daughter.  He also taught me to drive. The day I earned my learner’s permit, Dad had brought home a brand spanking new company pickup truck, and I had a softball game.  Dad handed me the keys, my brothers climbed into the back of the truck (a big no-no now) and he told me to get us there.  Aside from hitting a couple curbs from turning too close, we got there just fine, and my love of driving was born!  He was never afraid to tell me he was proud of me.  High-fives, and “Atta-girls” were very common, but not many hugs or kisses. I guess he just wasn’t sure what was appropriate for a “step” dad. Now that I’m an adult, the hugs and kisses are always present.  He taught me the value of money, of sportsmanship and of family.  He always encouraged my interests, and was most proud when he heard me sing.  Some things never change.

I’m a parent, and a grandparent, myself now.  Many of the lessons I learned from my Dads are still with me, and I will pass them onto my children as they parent their children, and so on.  I always got the feeling that some people secretly felt sorry for me because I came from a “broken home,” but they couldn’t be more wrong. My home wasn’t “broken.”  I look at it like a house that had an addition built onto it.  That addition created more room, more opportunity, and most importantly…more love.

I love both of my Dads.  I was a very lucky girl.  I am a very lucky woman.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!