The Gift of Forgiveness

 

“Joshua!  Really??? Come on…”  I would normally be yelling but the pounding in my head has a sharp and raw edge to it.  I feel this pain with every beat of my unusually rapid pulse. It starts at the base of my skull then radiates  all the way around to my forehead, all I can manage to utter is a harsh whisper.    “I paid you to clean my car honey…I know you can do better than this.”  There was still trash and dirt, piles of old magazines, a couple of way overdue library books, coffee cups and half eaten cookies rattling around in my car. I see a bottle of Windex lying on the floor of the passenger side of the car, evidence that there was in fact an attempt made at the car cleaning chore.

Joshua looks at me with those big wide innocent eyes and says “I’m sorry mama.” He still calls me “mama” I think he knows he gets some mileage out of this affectionate name. “I will finish it today…I just really needed the five dollars because today is our book fair at school and I really want to buy some football posters.” 

I lecture him about being responsible and doing a chore when he’s asked too…not when he feels like it. I especially give a little sermon on how dishonest it was to take that five dollars before the job was done.  I was too sick last night to go and check his work, “Joshua, do you know what taking advantage of someone means?” I asked but before he could answer I explained for him. I suppose without supervision I would have done the same half-hearted type of work when I was ten. In fact, I did.

Saturday mornings in 1975 meant room inspection.  My dad would bounce us out of bed at 7:00am.  “Get your rooms cleaned and ready for inspection by zero-nine-hundred!”  Dad would ORDER.  Dad was a navy guy.  For six months at a time Dad would be subjected to living in the little tiny cramped tube of a submarine.  The thought of living in a sub hidden from the world for months at a time under all that water fascinated me. I loved going down to his office to look, in awe at the photographs he had carefully hung on his walls.  Dad’s office wall photos were well organized categories (of course) of his accomplishments.  There was the football section, the fishing section, the gardening section and the Navy section. I had two favorite photos in the Navy section, one where he was standing on the hull of the ship next to an iceberg in the South Pole.  To me someone who had traveled to the South Pole and had seen a real live iceberg was on par with astronauts who had traveled to the moon.  My other favorite picture was of one of the subs that was sunk in the Vietnam War. This particular picture was so captivating for me because one of dad’s friends, whom I had apparently met at some point in my life went down with that ship.  In the photo of the cursed vessel there is a marred rusty looking spot on the starboard side and I wonder if that’s where the torpedoes hit it, supposing that the enemy had some sort of evil power allowing them to find the weak spot in their helpless targets. I often ask dad to retell us the story about the sinking of that ship. I try to imagine it going down, the cabins being flooded with sea water.  Were the crew afraid?  Did they scream and cry?  Did they try to escape? No one survived that tragedy.

Dad, it seemed to me was still living on his sub in his mind.  He was the captain of the ship… my brother, my mom and I were the crew.  He taught us how to live with the bare minimum like they were forced to do in the Navy.  Bathroom stragities101; He taught me how to fold over a piece of toilet paper and use it again instead of being wasteful and using a fresh one.  He taught me that it was imperative to keep myself meticulously clean as germs and bacteria in confined damp areas could lead to deadly infections.  I hated putting soap inside of places in my body I would have been just as happy to have never learned existed. Dad had as little tolerance for frivolous and excessive things as he did for dirty things.  My brother and I were never allowed to tape our art work to the fridge like the neighborhood kids did at their houses.  That would look messy and everything must be in order.  This was a daunting practice for me to try and live by and an even more difficult concept to try to wrap my mind around.  Expressiveness in forms of art and in creating my own environment seemed insuppressible and effortlessly flowed out of me.  A plethora of art and expression grew from deep inside of me, seemed to escape out of my pores and drip right off of my fingertips manifesting itself into sculptures and paintings, and in arranging my bedroom furniture to look like some sort of magical ship that could both sail the sea as well as fly.  Saturday morning inspections were excruciating as I was required to take down all my art to pass inspection. I removed the colored threads of yarn I had hung in my window to form a living curtain. If I hung the long threads of yarn just right when the breeze blew in they would flow over my bed like a wave of rainbow colors that almost looked fluid. I was planning to attach little bells or pieces of bamboo to the ends of the strings so I would have a beautiful sound to go along with the delightful color show I had created.  All my art carefully taken down and my furniture put back in place I called dad to say I was ready for inspection-at zero-eight hundred hours-Ha!  But I was never ready, it was never right.  I would take all my precious art, put it in the toy chest and cover it up with blankets.  My plan was to recreate my nest after inspection. Dad would “inspect” much more thoroughly than I would anticipate and when he looked under my carefully placed blankets and found my art he insisted that I throw the *trash* away.  I would get pissed!  I’d stomp and scream, once he left the room of course. “Danny always passes inspection!” I yelled. “I never do!  It’s cuz Dad loves Danny!”  I must have been pouting louder than I realized because dad came into my room and asked if there were a problem. “Nope, no problem here.” I said wiping the snot off my face and onto my sleeve. I took my art in my arms, crumpled it and shoved it into a trash bag never looking at my beloved works but staring him straight in the face.  Like a little sailor dutifully obeying the commanding officer.

“Good work.” Dad said.

Although Josh is getting a dressing-down this morning for his slothful behavior my heart has melted and softened a bit because of him calling me “mama” and because of those big blue eyes full of contrition he uses to render me defenseless in attempting any form of disciplinary action that might have been taken for his transgression.

“Alright Joshy,” I say ready to cut the kid a break  “but do you understand what I have told you?”  I ask.

“Yes mama, I’m sorry you’re still sick and I will finish cleaning the car as soon as I get home.”

“Okay.”  I pat him on the head and then rub my own as this sharp stabbing pain in my brain feels like its well on it’s way to a migraine category headache.  Changing the subject from unfinished chores I say “Joshy, I guess I’m stuck at home again today.” Meaning as hard as I try to will myself well I am still sick. I let my body be in charge these days, not my will and I reluctantly yield to its needs.  “I guess I could get some baking done for the farmers markets.”  I suggest out loud to myself.

“Or you could write.” Joshua suggests. 

“What should I write about Josh?”  I peek at him through the slits in my fingers as I cradle my aching head.

“You could write about my football!”  he says excitedly “and include that part about Cotz. Remember last year?”  Cotz is the name the kids called their grandfather, my dad.  Joshua is a really bright and sensitive kid, artistic and expressive, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but mostly Joshua loves the sport of football! Cotz is like a rock star to Josh because of the fact that Cotz was one of the founders a semi-pro football team right here in our town.  Josh loves to pore over the old black and white photos and newspaper clippings of Cotz that capture his, seemingly now antique, football years. Joshua never witnessed the harsh navy side of my dad. Only my oldest son Seth was exposed to the end of that era and no harshness was ever directed at Seth, only at me. By the time Joshua was born my dad had considerably mellowed.  Actually he began to mellow and soften by the time I was about 30 years old.  His mollescent temperament began around the time my second son Jamie was born which coincided with dad having a major heart attack. 

We got the phone call that dad was being flown to DC for an emergency surgery. I drove my baby and my mom down to Washington Hospital Center where dad was undergoing a quadruple bypass.  When we went in to the post-op room to see him all he could talk about was how exhilarating  the helicopter flight was. “It was beautiful!” he said as if it were a ride at the fair.  “We took off from the roof of the hospital in Frederick and as we ascended we tilted back and forth giving me an incredible view of the city from east to west.  I could see the house where I grew up!”  This is typical behavior for dad, not afraid of much of anything as far as I can tell. During his hospital stay he made some friends, some fans and pissed off more than a few of the staff.  He would unplug his monitors so he could go out into the court yard to smoke.  The flat-line recorded on his monitor would send a code-blue call to his room.  The team of rescuers became more and more irritated each time dad would pull this stunt.  But the nurses loved him.  He would innocuously flirt with them and we would often find the nurses sitting in his room chatting away with dad, laughing at his humor, which had a Garrison Keillor twist to it that was very compelling to listen to.  We knew dad was unlikely to make the necessary lifestyle changes to keep his heart healthy as was evident by the constant sneaking out of the hospital, only hours after surgery to suck into his lungs the addictive poison that had contributed to his heart attack in the first place. Although dad didn’t seem to heed the warnings about smoking, the importance of exercise or his diet especially ignoring warnings about his alcohol consumption, he did pay attention to the fact that he needed to relax.  He found the perfect tool to help him achieve a stress free existence. Marijuana. And lots of it.

 Dad had been smoking pot for years but now, post surgery he refined his methods of smoking mixed with drinking that gave him a constant buzz while still retaining the ability to function. I feel compelled to mention here that this self medicating stress maintenance plan of his contributed indirectly, but not insignificantly, to his early and untimely demise. That said, to be perfectly honest, I really liked dad this way. He was softer, more present, more aware, aware of us anyway, not so much aware of himself and his health.  He became very involved in all four of my children’s lives and in mine.  I would call him for advice and he would openly share with me his stories and experiences helping me to form my own thoughts and decisions.  Dads behavior continued to become even more odd but adorably amusing. He began keeping very strange hours and often the children and I would wake early in the morning to begin our day of home-school and find Dad with his dry erase board ready with the math lesson for the day. Doughnuts and coffee and of course his thermos of Brandy Manhattans would be all set up on our kitchen table. Often dad would put a flower or two in a water glass for a center piece on our breakfast/school table.  The kids and I enjoyed my dad’s quirky, funny and joyful personality.  His voice was soft and gentle.  I don’t think my kids ever heard or could imagine him yelling.

Dad has been gone now for five years.   As dad lay dying in the ICU my brother Danny and I sang the song  Black Bird to him;

Black bird singin’ in the edge of night….

take these broken wings and learn to fly….

all your life…

you were only waiting for this moment to arise.” 

When I was a kid I never imagined feeling love for my dad.  I never thought I could ever forgive or understand his harsh and heavy hand as I was growing up. Had he not softened I might not have given myself the gift of forgiveness. 

Last year Joshua joined the football team.  I was at his super bowl game and they had won!  I was sick, as usual but as the clock ran out I found myself jumping to my feet on the bleachers cheering with all the other, much more physically healthy parents.  Josh, number 50, came running off the field.  He ripped off his helmet and held it in the air as a victory sign.  While I was clapping and cheering I looked at Joshua’s face but Joshua was not there…it was my dad…young and full of life running across the football field in his Falcon jersey.  It was night and it was cold, the falcons had just won and dad was ecstatic!  I felt so happy for him!  The memory of all the photographs in dad’s office from the football section flashed through my mind like they were stacked in a pile and I was thumbing through them creating a moving picture from still photographs as they flipped under my thumb. Dad kept running off the field and toward the bleachers where we were standing.  He looked through the crowd and found me, our eyes met and as he was giving me a big smile exposing that gaped tooth grin of his. Suddenly the gap in his teeth closed, the jersey faded from green to orange, the cold October night at a  football field turned into a bright sunny September morning and there was my son Josh, celebrating his win and flashing me a quick smile. 

The longer I’m around the more I see life as a circle of events.  I don’t think there are beginnings and endings. Life, at least to me is not linear. Dad isn’t gone. That harsh exterior of dad no longer exists so I guess it’s easier now for him to share some of his magic with Joshua as he wins a game, or my oldest son Seth as he goes off on yet another adventure to Africa or Chili not unlike, in an adventure sense, the thrilling expeditions my dad took to the to the South Pole.  I hear dad in my son Jamie’s voice and see his hands strum the strings on his guitar as Jamie uses his inherited musical talents from my father. With my daughter’s talent and ability to write beautiful poetry and stories it seems dad is guiding her hand or whispering thoughts into her ear so she perhaps will someday have volumes of writings, a collection like his.  And in myself, I think dad is guiding me as I attempt to be the best parent I can…”Remember, be gentle” he whispers as I go to discipline one of my children. “Remember, to really listen to what they are saying…” I hear him suggest while one of my kids is trying to tell me something and I am preoccupied with some trivial matter.  “This part of Life is but a drop of water in an Ocean of eternity…you have nothing to be afraid of or regret in this big marvelous full circle.  I am right here.”