Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-06-16 - 12:01 a.m.

My Father's Day

This is going to be a sappy and somewhat sad Father's Day essay, so if you're not in the mood for that sort of thing, don't read any farther. Go read some of my older, funnier stuff, or read something else, or better yet turn off the goog tube completely and go take a walk.

Still there? Okay, c'mon. There's someone I want you to meet.

This is my Dad.

Go on, now - he's a little shy, but after you talk for a while, you'll find out he's a charming and funny man. He's a pilot, and he's interested in most anything. He was building and programming personal computers when they were a new item, and he taught himself Basic, Pascal and a lot of C. He loves roses, and photography, and airplanes, and sports cars. He does woodwork and metalwork and most any kind of construction, and loves to talk about those things too. If there aren't any kids around, you might get him to tell you a slightly dirty joke or two.

This is the man who bought a burned-up Volkswagen when I was fifteen, and an engine from the JC Whitney catalog, and told me if I could put the two together I could have the car. He said you shouldn't drive a car if you didn't know how one worked. I learned, and I got the car. He taught my sister and me to lay brick, and called us his "brickin' pals". He talked to me about ethics, and responsibility, and he showed me these things in his life. And he taught me that the funniest things are best said with a very straight face.

He may not talk much about himself, and he'll always tell you what he thinks, not what he feels. It takes a while to get to know him well. But he's a man worthy of your time.

But this page, on this day, is the only place you can meet my Dad. I brought him here today, but in the real world, he has been gone for a long time. There is a man here, and I love this man too, but he isn't Will McCall. He is not the man who was my father, but I take care of him in honor of the man you've just met. Sometimes I feel as though I have done this forever.

This man, a few years ago, showed me the huge scab on the back of his hand and asked me, "Do you know how this happened?" Not remembering the fall, or the trip to the Urgent Care center where I had them debride and dress the hand, and how it had been getting better day by day for the past week. And when I gently explained, he said gratefully, "Oh, thank you. I was afraid I was rotting."

This man sat at my kitchen table years ago with his head on his hands and wept, and could only articulate his pain as "Why can't things just be the way they were?" But they weren't, and they never would be again.

This man, now, writes me a card. He dictates it to an aide at the Alzheimer's residence, because he can't remember how to write. He begins it, "Dear Elizabeth". I do not know any Elizabeth.

I pick him up to take him to the dentist. Sadly, he needs a few small fillings, because it is hard to take care of his teeth now. He goes with me because I want him to, even though he doesn't understand it. I take him into the room - Yes, Dad, it's okay, you can sit right here - but there is not enough room for me to stay. I tell him I will be right outside, and when he's done we will get him a decaf mocha, which he loves. When they tell me they are finished, I go in and tell him that he's done very well. And he tells me, "I was only scared a few times."

This man breaks my heart now. I am sure I broke his, in my younger days. Neither of us can help it; neither of us can stop it.

Sometimes I wish I were a better daughter, a stronger daughter, a daughter that could fix this, for all of us. But sometimes, I just wish I was Elizabeth.

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