One of my mentors through his books was Rev. Frederick Buechner, American author, theologian and Presbyterian minister. Buechner wrote 4 works gradually revealing the course of his life. It wasn’t until the third memoir, Telling Secrets that he revealed his father had suicided and how that shaped the course of a 10 year old boy’s life.
I thought of following the same pattern of building to the more intimate moments of my journey. But it occurred to me that if I wrote about my family life as a young lad, that some family photos would be appropriate. That couldn’t happen. I was brought back to times through my grad school education and seminary where for some subject or another we had to bring in family photos. It was embarrassing then not to have any, as it is now to tell you about how that happened.
My father was remarkable in many ways, and in subsequent writings I will tell you about the man who shaped my intellectual life and indulged my insatiable curiosity. Unfortunately, as Dad’s success grew so did his drinking. Eventually he became a functional alcoholic – AAA+ family provider, top in his field as an underwriter and negotiator of reinsurance treaties, but becoming emotionally blunted towards my mother, younger brother and I as devotion to his profession took up more of his time as did his drinking.
The father I knew as a young boy, disappeared after my mother died of breast cancer at 47. A few years later, he retired, never remarried and withdrew emotionally from my brother and I and my maternal grandparents. Essentially he became a recluse, living well, keeping a neat home, his appearance impeccable . . . but nearly always in an inebriated state.
Old resentments surfaced. I never knew the source of them, but he became more irritable and explosive anger occurred more frequently, directed at Lord knows what or whom. He became argumentative with me to the point where I limited my visits with him to 2 hours for self-preservation.
One day I had the urge to go through the family albums, albums that I had spent many happy hours throughout my child and teenage years looking at my parent’s wedding, the cake Uncle Bob the German baker made as tall as my mother; 5’8” that had to be assembled on site. My grandparents; Grandma “Ma” Rose diminutive and adorable; Grandpa Joe with his widow’s peak slick back black hair and rimless glasses looking like a diplomat and the patriarch of the family that he was.
I loved the photos of my parent’s honeymoon at Hubert & Mary Wann’s Resort on the Wisconsin River near Lodi Wisconsin, where in later years we spent family vacations. Photos of me running the 7 ½ HP Elgin outboard on a round bottom boat at Letourneau’s Resort on Big Spider Lake in Hayward, Wisconsin where I would spend a month with Grandpa and the members of his Surf, Rod, and Gun Club in Chicago fishing for muskies. I could go on forever, each photo and the details burned into my memory to this day.
When I asked if Dad and I could go through all the albums and the photos he said . . . “I burned them all.” I left feeling my rage getting out of control and the early signs of sorrow shaking my body.
I went to my Grandparents. They confirmed that it was true. And that’s all I can say. They ALL were gone. Gone except for my memory that can recall them in great detail. I didn’t learn ‘til late in life that was a Gift that Grace left me . . . to reimage what I had seen or observed in detail. I took me awhile before I was able to accept the Gift with gratefulness rather than resentment.
It still hurts, especially at moments like these. It became less painful as I learned thru my studies more about the psychology of addictions. I suspect that Dad’s rage may have been during a blackout. At least that is where my thoughts lean. That mitigates my sadness and the feeling that part of my history remains available to others only thru my recollection.
