Yesterday, my father enjoyed his 96th birthday somewhere in the vicinity of Chattanooga, Tennessee. That is, *if* he is still alive.
He was born Robert Vernon Shearer on July 18, 1918 in Duck Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada. He was an ophthalmologist by profession and father to at least 12 children (5 from his first wife, 2 from his second and 5 "illegitimate" bastards born to my mother). When I was growing up, we used to see him every once in a while. I was too young to remember the times when he came for his conjugal visits (we were all born pretty close together). But, I do remember regular eye exams in his office that shared a parking lot with the Loma Linda University hospital where he and my mother met and our other, more magical visits in the local orange grove. We would climb on trees full of blossoms and drink orange juice, fresh and sweet, from the grove stand while mom and dad would talk -- exchanging kisses and money. And once upon a time, I saw the boat he built with his own hands. My grandpa told me he learned welding and honed his skills building that boat so he could apply it to the surgical use of lasers on the eye. Yeah, my dad's pretty incredible for an absentee father.
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 16 years old. He read my poetry and told me how proud he was of my talent and made me promise not to waste my gift. He gave me a hug and shared a memory I don't have of my own. He lamented, "Beckie, when you were a very little girl, I picked you up for a hug and you patted my cheeks and said Daddy, why don't you marry my Mommie? I wish I had listened to you. I wish I had..." But, my daddy didn't marry my mommie. He married Carrie and had 2 more sons, each of them born 6 months apart from my two youngest brothers.
I was pregnant with my fourth child (Daelynn) when I heard his voice last. For a time, he would call me from a payphone. He couldn't call from his house because his relationship with my mom and her children stirred up such a hornet's nest with his wife (see dates of his youngest 4 son's births above to understand why). We would enjoy long conversations full of simple nothings that meant everything. I didn't ask him enough questions. I thought we had all the time in the world to get to know each other. But, when I call his home to announce the birth of his grandchild, my third little girl, Carrie answered the phone instead. She was miserable angry and completely vicious.
I've never called him since.
Through a post on a genealogy website once upon a time, I met my cousin Ray. He was wonderful. He shared stories of his family, my wonderful Ukrainian grandma Nettie, and my dad. Dad was a pilot, a veteran, a sailor, a treasure hunter. He came from a family who believed in education and community. (His father -- a Seventh-day Adventist Scottsman -- built a school on his farm for the local children to attend.)
But, in a very real way, none of his story is my history. My brothers and sisters and I are all carefully documenting what is happening now. We are building stories of our own for our children to see and learn from. Yesterday, 8 years of family home videos were lost. It was an accident. It was the second time the stories I have carefully gathered have been erased.
N.K. Jemisin says, "There is a strange emptiness to life without myths...My ancestors were the unwilling, unintact ones: children torn from parents, parents torn from elders, people torn from roots, stories torn from language. Past a certain point, my family’s history just… stops. As if there was nothing there...I could do what others have done, and attempt to reconstruct this lost past. I could research genealogy and genetics, search for the traces of myself in moldering old sale documents and scanned images on microfiche...These are proven strategies, but I have no interest in them. They’ll tell me where I came from, but not what I really want to know: where I’m going. To figure that out, I make shit up.”
I realized this morning that this is what we've all been doing -- my brothers, my sisters, and I. We've been making it up as we go along. We don't know who we look like or inherited our temper from or our drive to DO or our absolute disdain for being told what to do. We are a family of rebels...perhaps the blood of the Dubliners lives in our veins, but it doesn't matter. Because we are ourselves. We are our own roots and wings (if we'll have them).
For me, both of these (my roots and wing and branches) all come from my relationship with God. My Heavenly Father is the only father I truly know, but the memories of the father who chose not to be there and the mother who chose not to let him are in me too. And sometimes, I am afraid.
He was born Robert Vernon Shearer on July 18, 1918 in Duck Lake, Saskatchewan, Canada. He was an ophthalmologist by profession and father to at least 12 children (5 from his first wife, 2 from his second and 5 "illegitimate" bastards born to my mother). When I was growing up, we used to see him every once in a while. I was too young to remember the times when he came for his conjugal visits (we were all born pretty close together). But, I do remember regular eye exams in his office that shared a parking lot with the Loma Linda University hospital where he and my mother met and our other, more magical visits in the local orange grove. We would climb on trees full of blossoms and drink orange juice, fresh and sweet, from the grove stand while mom and dad would talk -- exchanging kisses and money. And once upon a time, I saw the boat he built with his own hands. My grandpa told me he learned welding and honed his skills building that boat so he could apply it to the surgical use of lasers on the eye. Yeah, my dad's pretty incredible for an absentee father.
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 16 years old. He read my poetry and told me how proud he was of my talent and made me promise not to waste my gift. He gave me a hug and shared a memory I don't have of my own. He lamented, "Beckie, when you were a very little girl, I picked you up for a hug and you patted my cheeks and said Daddy, why don't you marry my Mommie? I wish I had listened to you. I wish I had..." But, my daddy didn't marry my mommie. He married Carrie and had 2 more sons, each of them born 6 months apart from my two youngest brothers.
I was pregnant with my fourth child (Daelynn) when I heard his voice last. For a time, he would call me from a payphone. He couldn't call from his house because his relationship with my mom and her children stirred up such a hornet's nest with his wife (see dates of his youngest 4 son's births above to understand why). We would enjoy long conversations full of simple nothings that meant everything. I didn't ask him enough questions. I thought we had all the time in the world to get to know each other. But, when I call his home to announce the birth of his grandchild, my third little girl, Carrie answered the phone instead. She was miserable angry and completely vicious.
I've never called him since.
Through a post on a genealogy website once upon a time, I met my cousin Ray. He was wonderful. He shared stories of his family, my wonderful Ukrainian grandma Nettie, and my dad. Dad was a pilot, a veteran, a sailor, a treasure hunter. He came from a family who believed in education and community. (His father -- a Seventh-day Adventist Scottsman -- built a school on his farm for the local children to attend.)
But, in a very real way, none of his story is my history. My brothers and sisters and I are all carefully documenting what is happening now. We are building stories of our own for our children to see and learn from. Yesterday, 8 years of family home videos were lost. It was an accident. It was the second time the stories I have carefully gathered have been erased.
N.K. Jemisin says, "There is a strange emptiness to life without myths...My ancestors were the unwilling, unintact ones: children torn from parents, parents torn from elders, people torn from roots, stories torn from language. Past a certain point, my family’s history just… stops. As if there was nothing there...I could do what others have done, and attempt to reconstruct this lost past. I could research genealogy and genetics, search for the traces of myself in moldering old sale documents and scanned images on microfiche...These are proven strategies, but I have no interest in them. They’ll tell me where I came from, but not what I really want to know: where I’m going. To figure that out, I make shit up.”
I realized this morning that this is what we've all been doing -- my brothers, my sisters, and I. We've been making it up as we go along. We don't know who we look like or inherited our temper from or our drive to DO or our absolute disdain for being told what to do. We are a family of rebels...perhaps the blood of the Dubliners lives in our veins, but it doesn't matter. Because we are ourselves. We are our own roots and wings (if we'll have them).
For me, both of these (my roots and wing and branches) all come from my relationship with God. My Heavenly Father is the only father I truly know, but the memories of the father who chose not to be there and the mother who chose not to let him are in me too. And sometimes, I am afraid.
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