05. Father’s 26th Birthday

Dec. 5, 1940

My father celebrated his twenty sixth birthday today.  He had to go to work and I think he was a little relieved having to do so.  He is a fireman.  He likes the company of the other firemen, the card games, the routines, being away from the house, the distraction work provides.  It frightens my mother to be home alone with me.  She gave my father a belt and a silver buckle with a dog engraved on it for his birthday.  He didn’t actually like the belt, thought it was impersonal somehow, was concerned for how much it cost and where she got the money, failed to show what my mother hoped would be the proper amount of appreciation for her efforts by throwing it carelessly on their big double bed in front of the wall sized mirror in their bedroom that is also called “the living room.”  Mother cried.  Father walked out angrily.  I was left puzzled, unattended, and cold in the crib after his departure.

Who is this man my father?  He is where my sorely limited and wholly incomplete knowledge starts.  He remains a mystery to me, this person responsible for half my gene pool, who loved and wounded me, much as he attempted in his limited way to expose his heart and soul, much as I plumbed those depths for the forty-two years we shared on this earth.  He was so arrogant, so self-righteous, and so simultaneously insecure.  I don’t get it. I do get it. Inherited it raw and familiar. Got it – by inheritance and environment. Don’t get it.