The Hands of a Father

I have gotten a guest blogger talk about Father's Day. Thank you to my dear friend and customer, Dennis, for telling us what it's like to be a father, a son, and a grandson. Take the time to do something special for the Dads on June 16th. Oh, and get out the tissues readers!

 

A couple of Christmases ago, I received a glass plate with my son's handprint, as well as my own. I'm a sentimental guy so I was very touched by the gift and got a little choked up when I opened it. It sits on my dresser and I hope my son will one day want it as a remembrance of him and me and the father I was to him. I hope his memories will all be colored with love.

"I need to talk to you about something that happened at school," my ex-wife said regarding my 5 year old son and then went on to say that my sweet little bundle of kindergarten joy had been sent to the office for hitting a boy in his class. Let that sink in for a minute, I’ll wait. My son got sent to the principal's office as a kindergartener! It's not that big a shock that my kid ended up in the office – apple doesn't fall far from the tree and all that, but I waited until middle school before I saw anyone's office at school. “He's had a hard time keeping his hands to himself lately and he's talking a lot about tough guys.” She wants to know if I’ve said anything to him about tough guys and can I talk to him about his behavior? Now, I'm busted and they're going to want to send ME to the office because I have accidentally glorified being tough by encouraging him to take up for himself. It’s not like I told him to beat everyone (or anyone) up, I just told him it was okay to take up for himself if someone hit him first. I'd also recently told him a little bit about his great grandfather, after he asked about him and the army uniform he’s wearing in a framed picture I have. I explained that he was in WWII and that he was the toughest guy I ever knew besides my own father. But now I have to help my son understand that being a tough guy is a more complicated than I'd led him to believe. We spent the next weekend together and he and I headed out Saturday evening to get some ice cream and have our first big "father/son talk."

My grandfather, probably around 1944
 

Tough guys. The mental picture I've always had of tough guys is that picture my son asked about. It is a picture of my granddad in his dress uniform, circa WWII. He always took pride in his military service. He was the undisputed patriarch of the family, as well as the undisputed grouch; kind of gruff and without a lot of polish. He and I were close and we spent a lot of time together during my youth. We used to rough house and play box and I don't remember anyone who had hands stronger or harder than my granddad did. It was like being hit with a rock. Men from that generation weren't the kind of guys who shared their feelings or were overtly affectionate. Most of them had gone off to war as kids, did their duty, came home and made a life for themselves, and rarely talked about the things they'd done or seen. For me, they were heroes and my grandfather was the bravest man I knew. He was a good man who worked hard his whole life and loved his family more than anything. A story my dad told me a few years back really illustrates this. After he was back in the states and shortly before my granddad was about to be discharged from the army in 1946, he requested leave to go home for my dad’s birth. Because he was so close to release, his commanding officer declined the request and told him to wait until his official discharge. Jack Russell Jr., who was as much a by the book guy as anyone I've ever known, went AWOL so he could be there for his son’s birth. When later asked why he wasn't scared of the consequences he said, "Every German in Germany had already tried to kill me. What the hell was the army going to do to me?"

My dad, probably around 1951

My dad was raised by that dogged and determined soldier. Those weren't the days of building up a child's confidence through encouragement and positive feedback. They were days of a clear right vs. wrong and subsequent woodshed trips when the latter was chosen. I don’t mean that he was raised without love, quite the opposite. There was an abundance of it. My grandmother was always the peaceful voice of faith, reason, and love and wouldn’t have raised her family without it. But fathers played a bit of a different role back then. He may have been stingy with the hugs at times, but my grandfather loved his children and certainly instilled toughness and a never give up attitude in my father. My dad was raised to fight back and never give up, to work hard, and always try to do the right thing. He ingrained those traits in me in a slightly more gentle way that replaced razor strap spankings with spankings from the wide belt styles of the 70's. I also got a lot more verbal "I love you's" than he got as a kid.

My dad lost his right hand in a terrible accident when he was 17 years old and a few years before I was born. I've never known him any other way than the way he is now, but I honestly never thought much about his hand being gone. My dad can and did do anything men with two hands did. He could throw a ball, hit one with a bat, catch one with a glove, put brakes on a car, build things, fix things, and anything else you asked him to do. He could do more things with one hand than I could have with three. It took me a long time to realize how much he had to overcome and how difficult it must have been for him after the accident. An average 17 year old is a bundle of insecurities already. How does one cope with losing a hand at that age and maintain any kind of confidence? My dad didn't have the option of giving up. I suppose he technically had it, but he wasn't raised to even consider that option. If it affected his confidence or psyche, I never saw it. He accepted what happened and did what he had to do to live his life normally, without regards to his injury, and he never let it defeat him.

4 years ago, some personal issues changed my whole life and I was a mess for about 6 months. My dad tried to be there for me, to support me, to help me get through it, and to remind me to not give up and to fight back. I couldn’t find my strength, at first, and I made it hard for anyone to love me, but he stayed in my corner even though he eventually had to love me from a distance. However, he never once refused to be there when I needed help. After my troubles passed, I realized that he'd taught me the most important lesson about parenthood he could – that a parent always loves their child unconditionally.

Me, around 1971
 

Growing up, a trip to the principal's office meant a spanking at home too, but spanking isn't a parenting tool I use much. Outside of a few "don't stick your finger in that light socket again" taps on a diaper when he was a toddler, I really haven’t spanked my son. It's the nuclear parenting option and I am not sure what situation would make me use it. Lacking that, I spent a few days thinking hard about what I should say to my son about his school troubles. I wanted to correct him without instilling fear in him and to convey the seriousness of his actions while fostering confidence that I love him, no matter what happens. I want him to know that he can always talk to me. Our job as parents is not only to feed, clothe, and house our offspring, but to also teach them to be decent human beings and how to survive a world that seems more dangerous than ever. I needed words that would make sense to a 5 year old brain. We pulled into a hamburger place and sat down with a sundae that he dug into.

I put my hand on his cheek, asked him to look at me, and said gently, "Son, you can't hit anyone at school. I know I told you to defend yourself, but right now the rule is no hitting at school, regardless of who hit who first.” I apologized for giving him the wrong impression about standing up for himself and told him that moms and dads make mistakes sometimes. Although I used simpler words, I explained to him what I've learned about being tough. Tough guys aren't the guys who win with their fists; they're the guys who get up every day and work hard to provide for their families. They’re the men who may not be physically with their children every day, but are present in their lives nonetheless. They’re the men who love and raise children that aren’t their biological offspring. The hardness or the strength of your hands doesn’t make you tough, but the resolve and the strength in your heart that gets you through life’s rough patches does. Toughness is surviving war and then coming home to live a successful and fulfilling life, despite the horrors you’ve witnessed. It is learning do everything with your left hand at 17 when you’ve always been right handed. It is loving your child unconditionally, even when they make it difficult for anyone to love them. It's getting back up when life keeps knocking you down. It's never giving up, no matter what. I learned that from my dad, he learned it from his, and I hope my son learns it from me. I hope he always sees kindness in my hands and strength and unconditional love in my heart.

 

My son who is my greatest blessing. 2013.

 

Happy Father’s Day to all those, male and female, who are dads to the children they love. Happy Father’s Day, especially, to my dad, Mike Russell, with whom I share so much, especially a love of music and lyrics, and who taught me to always trust my cape. I love you, Dad.