For Daddy, on his birthday...
Nearly 10 years ago now, I remember standing next to my dad in his dress blues in the foyer of Sacred Heart Cathedral. When the church doors opened, I saw Ray burst into tears as my dad and I started toward the alter--and neither Ray nor I stopped crying for the first 10 minutes of the ceremony.
When he got back to work after the honeymoon, one of Ray’s colleagues (who'd attend the wedding) told him he would've cried too if he'd seen a Marine charging down the aisle at him “with his bulldog face on”. That comment was especially funny to me—because this outsider’s perception of my dad aligned exactly with the hard-core military persona Daddy has always reveled in radiating over the years. He used to put on his fatigues and cut my birthday cakes with his ceremonial sword, like a warning slice to my slumber party of 3rd-grade-girls that “lights out” would not be a suggestion later in the evening.
But contrary to the birthday party theatrics during my formative years, my dad was definitely more of a pacifist and peacekeeper than his military status implied. My mom was much more likely to chase you around the house so she could spank the crap out of you (cough…Liz…cough….Caroline) and/or unleash a maternal fury so deafening, the doors and windows would burst open like slow-motion film clips of atom bombs detonating. For mom, there was a literal laundry list of evils—ranging from mundane minutia of not doing something you were asked to do for the hundredth time to encouraging your sister to melt her own thumb by shoving it into to cigarette lighter in the minivan. Meanwhile, Daddy’s impetus for bringing down the hammer was limited to one of the following catalysts:
(1) Bringing home less than an A in French or English: Daddy was an expert in both and believed our linguistic excellence could be easily elicited through willful activation of a genetic predisposition, much in the same way a genie might nod or blink to grant a wish.
(2) Pissing off our mother: almost as unacceptable as failing French, but absolutely certain to bring to fruition the old adage “if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy”.
(3) Engaging in the act of "farting around", particularly at, around, or past any hour he had deemed it was “time to go to bed”, which could be as early as 6:45 pm, depending on our behavior (or his).
As we grew older, that list of infractions expanded to include articles that applied to kids of a taller, more independent age, such as manipulating the thermostat (which could also be considered a variant of “farting around”, as in “Don’t fart around with the thermostat!” ), not changing the oil in a vehicle, neglecting the quality of tread on your tires--and trying to pile into a beat-up Honda with 5 other girls when only one headlight is working. But for the most part, stern disciplinarian was clearly not his favorite part of fatherhood. He seemed to really relish the fun of being Daddy: the building of treehouses, the making of sand castles, the camouflage blanket picnics and popcorn parties on the living room floor. He did his best to be welcoming with all of our silly little boyfriends (minus the poor soul who’d made the unfortunate decision to show up wearing an earring, which incurred a silent death stare that nearly chased his teenage behind from our foyer on sight). And Daddy never hesitated to tell us he loved us, every time he got the chance.
In the final months leading up to becoming a parent myself, I’d thought a lot about my mother and her experience as a mom. Though I'll never know what it's like to be a dad, I learn more and more every day about being and having a spouse. So in my dad’s case, I thought a lot about all the things he did as a dad to be a great husband. Like candle-lit dinners on random week nights, where he and my mom would sit down like adults and have intelligent conversation. Like never forgetting a birthday, a Valentine's Day, or an anniversary. Like always presenting a united front to the kids-even if that meant deferring to the tried-and-true “go ask your mother” on topics where he was unsure of the stance they had agreed upon. My mom was a vehement proponent of having strong, independent female thinkers in her house—and my dad was a solid partner to her in that effort. Now that I’m grown, it’s harder for Daddy to hide his firm, fast, and often opposing opinions from me—so I realize there must have been a range of situations where he was forced to nearly bite his tongue clean off, as I evolved into the type of liberal that would summon bile to his throat from the depth of his being if I were anyone other than his daughter.
Nevertheless, no matter what exacerbated or validated the eternal headache, heartbreak, and heartburn that feeding, housing, and supporting five children entailed-- we always knew Daddy loved us, and that he loved the hell out of my mom. As a dad to four daughters and one son, those may be his most loving and lasting—if unspoken—expectations: to aspire to be that loved in our adult relationships, and to be with the person who can truly assume the role of our partner in life. I like to think that’s what all those tears were about the day I got married, and that my dad, through the example of his love for my mom, has been walking me toward the man Ray is my whole life, wearing the same shiny shoes and crisp dress blue uniform he wore on the day of his own wedding—plus or minus the deceptively stern “bull dog” face.
Nearly 10 years ago now, I remember standing next to my dad in his dress blues in the foyer of Sacred Heart Cathedral. When the church doors opened, I saw Ray burst into tears as my dad and I started toward the alter--and neither Ray nor I stopped crying for the first 10 minutes of the ceremony.
2006; Photo by Mike Oniffrey
When he got back to work after the honeymoon, one of Ray’s colleagues (who'd attend the wedding) told him he would've cried too if he'd seen a Marine charging down the aisle at him “with his bulldog face on”. That comment was especially funny to me—because this outsider’s perception of my dad aligned exactly with the hard-core military persona Daddy has always reveled in radiating over the years. He used to put on his fatigues and cut my birthday cakes with his ceremonial sword, like a warning slice to my slumber party of 3rd-grade-girls that “lights out” would not be a suggestion later in the evening.
(My sister wincing as Daddy slices her birthday cake, early-to-mid '90s)
But contrary to the birthday party theatrics during my formative years, my dad was definitely more of a pacifist and peacekeeper than his military status implied. My mom was much more likely to chase you around the house so she could spank the crap out of you (cough…Liz…cough….Caroline) and/or unleash a maternal fury so deafening, the doors and windows would burst open like slow-motion film clips of atom bombs detonating. For mom, there was a literal laundry list of evils—ranging from mundane minutia of not doing something you were asked to do for the hundredth time to encouraging your sister to melt her own thumb by shoving it into to cigarette lighter in the minivan. Meanwhile, Daddy’s impetus for bringing down the hammer was limited to one of the following catalysts:
(1) Bringing home less than an A in French or English: Daddy was an expert in both and believed our linguistic excellence could be easily elicited through willful activation of a genetic predisposition, much in the same way a genie might nod or blink to grant a wish.
(2) Pissing off our mother: almost as unacceptable as failing French, but absolutely certain to bring to fruition the old adage “if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy”.
(3) Engaging in the act of "farting around", particularly at, around, or past any hour he had deemed it was “time to go to bed”, which could be as early as 6:45 pm, depending on our behavior (or his).
As we grew older, that list of infractions expanded to include articles that applied to kids of a taller, more independent age, such as manipulating the thermostat (which could also be considered a variant of “farting around”, as in “Don’t fart around with the thermostat!” ), not changing the oil in a vehicle, neglecting the quality of tread on your tires--and trying to pile into a beat-up Honda with 5 other girls when only one headlight is working. But for the most part, stern disciplinarian was clearly not his favorite part of fatherhood. He seemed to really relish the fun of being Daddy: the building of treehouses, the making of sand castles, the camouflage blanket picnics and popcorn parties on the living room floor. He did his best to be welcoming with all of our silly little boyfriends (minus the poor soul who’d made the unfortunate decision to show up wearing an earring, which incurred a silent death stare that nearly chased his teenage behind from our foyer on sight). And Daddy never hesitated to tell us he loved us, every time he got the chance.
In the final months leading up to becoming a parent myself, I’d thought a lot about my mother and her experience as a mom. Though I'll never know what it's like to be a dad, I learn more and more every day about being and having a spouse. So in my dad’s case, I thought a lot about all the things he did as a dad to be a great husband. Like candle-lit dinners on random week nights, where he and my mom would sit down like adults and have intelligent conversation. Like never forgetting a birthday, a Valentine's Day, or an anniversary. Like always presenting a united front to the kids-even if that meant deferring to the tried-and-true “go ask your mother” on topics where he was unsure of the stance they had agreed upon. My mom was a vehement proponent of having strong, independent female thinkers in her house—and my dad was a solid partner to her in that effort. Now that I’m grown, it’s harder for Daddy to hide his firm, fast, and often opposing opinions from me—so I realize there must have been a range of situations where he was forced to nearly bite his tongue clean off, as I evolved into the type of liberal that would summon bile to his throat from the depth of his being if I were anyone other than his daughter.
Nevertheless, no matter what exacerbated or validated the eternal headache, heartbreak, and heartburn that feeding, housing, and supporting five children entailed-- we always knew Daddy loved us, and that he loved the hell out of my mom. As a dad to four daughters and one son, those may be his most loving and lasting—if unspoken—expectations: to aspire to be that loved in our adult relationships, and to be with the person who can truly assume the role of our partner in life. I like to think that’s what all those tears were about the day I got married, and that my dad, through the example of his love for my mom, has been walking me toward the man Ray is my whole life, wearing the same shiny shoes and crisp dress blue uniform he wore on the day of his own wedding—plus or minus the deceptively stern “bull dog” face.
1972
What a cute story. You seem to be very inquisitive about your fathers' thoughts. That's what good writers need to do. You did well here.
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