During my early years, I spent many evenings staring at a wrinkled black and white picture of a man called “Dad”.  Having never met him since my parents were divorced before I was even born, there was a natural curiosity about who this person was.  I saw other kids that had father figures in their lives.  Was “Dad” like this also?  Filled with questions, my patient mother would answer to the best of her ability, but there was always questions that just can’t be answered.  Those questions and a look of sadness would ultimately end the conversation and the picture would be replaced to the top drawer in my mothers dresser.

“RICHARD” came my mother’s voice as she yelled for me.  Out playing with the neighbor kids behind our home, her voice was a beacon that I needed to come home.  Jumping over the fence between properties, I ran as fast as my 8 year old legs would allow back to the only home I had ever known.  Running though an open back door, my mom had the phone receiver held to her chest as she says “Your father is on the line…would you like to talk with him?”  Filled with pure confused emotion, the quick movements in my legs are gone as I make a slow walk toward the only parent I had ever truly known.  Nodding my head in agreement, I reach for the phone and turn away from my mom and face the white wall of our dining room, afraid that I would be unable to speak.  My “Hello” is responded to with a “Hi Rick…..I’m your Father….”  The voice was so foreign and nothing like I had envisioned.  He asked dozens of questions and my answers were always single word replies.  Caught up in the overwhelming gravity of the situation, I don’t even remember asking him a single question.

Two years later, I sit in a front row seat of an aircraft, after flying for the first time.  The stewardess comes over and squats down and says “Alright Ricky, your going to come with me and we are going to find your family.  Who are you meeting again?”  Nervously, I respond “I’m meeting my Dad.”  Walking up the jetway to the right of the stewardess, I can see no one due to the right hand turn at the end.  In my mind, a terror builds as I start to wonder what will happen if he doesn’t show up.  Or if I get lost.  Coming around the corner, I see two smiling faces.  Dad runs up, kneels down on one knee, and gives me a hug which I do not return.  Then a lady walks up and says “Hi Ricky, my name is Bobbi-D and I’m really happy to meet you”.  Then Dad begins to explain that Bobbi-D is his girlfriend and will be hanging out with us for the weekend.  Overwhelmed once again with how life evolves, I have now met my father and his eventual wife and my second mother.

I don’t know what it is like growing up with a father around.  And I guess I don’t know what it’s like to have it the other way where a father is lost due to war or illness or just refusal to accept parental responsibility.  Growing up in a single parent homestead where your the man of the house from an early age is what my real life was all about.  But then having a part time Dad that would show up 2-3 times a year, driving fancy cars, bringing expensive gifts, and telling about his life of adventure was something that I don’t think I would wish on any child.  Never done with a hurtful intent, regardless of the expense of the gifts or lavish the meals we would consume, I always felt a bottomless hole in my stomach knowing that those were his experiences and not mine.  What I would have given to have seen the islands for myself or felt the sand between my toes.  How I yearned to see the lights of New York City as he and his wife had.  And oh how I would have laughed and been filled with joy if I had been the one he had taken to Las Vegas to see the magic show.  Watching him walk away and hearing him say “See ya in a few months Ricky”, I always dreaded the next visit and the reminder of what I didn’t have.

As I raise my daughters, I’m there for every sporting event.  Every birthday is a celebration. We talk about all of the things that make them uncomfortable and I listen to their responses without judgement and will pure acceptance.  At times they think I’m too controlling and smothering.  And the first date of every boy is with me as they need to prove themselves before they can even be considered boyfriend quality.  But no matter how hard I try, I can’t fill the gap that is missing from not having grandparents involved in their lives.  They are not dead or disabled and it is simply that my family and I are not convenient.  Flying all around the world, year after year, Dad and Bobbi-D continue to live a life of adventure.  When we do see them, their tales are filled with alcohol driven vacations and a path forward with no boundaries.  What started as a trip to visit friends on the east coast turns quickly into a vacation in Hawaii filled with hiking to waterfalls and sushi by a bonfire.  My girls listen as I did when I was young and are very well mannered, but I can see the same emotional detachment that plagued me.

Years later, as the four of us sit down in the assigned seats in preparation for the flight back to home after visiting my parents, all of us share looks that don’t require verbalization. My girls, teenagers now, have sorrowful looks on their faces.  My wife has a sympathetic look as she stares into my eyes and knows the pain that is always brought back to the surface during these visits.  My parents are older now and the years of partying and adventure have finally caught up with them.  Each dealing with numerous ailments, the time is spent listening to all the hurts and concerns about a couple that is ungracefully growing older. Bobbi-D is venomous in her comments to my family and I as she doesn’t understand why we don’t treat her with the same reverence as her expectations.  Expectations that come from her neighbors who raised a son and daughter and had been actively engaged in their children’s lives on a daily basis.  Neighbors that actually showed up and attended birthday parties as opposed to sending a card post dated 3-4 weeks later.  Ignoring her rants and raves, my attention is to a father that had once been my Hero.  The Hero that you truly want to believe exists, but is only part of your dreams and not present in your daily journey through life.  Bigger than life itself while I was growing up learning to be a man from the other fathers in the neighborhood, my Dad now shrinks with age as his body deteriorates.  Hardly able to hear and walking with a cane, he still yearns for adventure that his body can not oblige.

With a final hug, we parted ways knowing this would be one of the last times we would see each other.  Soon he will simply be the black and white photograph sitting in my sock drawer.  Soon he will be just stories that were told that will fade with time.