Fatherhood: Part I

Part One: Fatherhood

MY FATHER by Judy Collins

My father always promised us
that we would live in France.
We'd go boating on the Seine
and I would learn to dance.
We lived in Ohio then.
he worked in the mines.
On his dreams, like boats we knew
we'd sail in time.

All my sisters soon were gone
to Denver and Cheyenne.
Marrying their grownup dreams,
the lilacs and the man.
I stayed behind, the youngest still
only danced alone.
The colors of my father's dreams
faded, without a sigh.

And I live in Paris now,
My children dance and dream.
Hearing the ways of a miner's life,
In words they've never seen.
I sail my memories of home,
Like boats across the Seine.
And watch the Paris sun
Set in my father's eyes again.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The stories about my son all sprung from the deep and bounteous well of time together. But they did not morph into stories until they had been cocooned in snail mail, letters written to my youngest sister, Marianne, a violin repair craftswoman residing (in April, 2007) in Amherst, Massachusettes, just about six blocks down from Emily Dickinson's home. Marianne encouraged me to continue the letter writing endeavors.

I also sent photo copies of these letters to my blessed mother friends Connie Moissant (who was a semester short of becoming a math major, but ended up doing wonderful things as a social worker) and Georgine Cooper, editor extraordinaire, possessor of the keenest mind, quickest-quipped wit, and highest standards of moral integrity, along with Dr. Kenneth Bennett, Ph.D., professor emeritus of the Department of English Literature, Lake Forest College, Lake Forest Illinois, dear and esteemed friend and sometimes duplicate bridge partner, also provided much positive reinforcement to continue taking fingers to keyboard.

MUCH more recently, Wilda (Trish) Hughes whom I "met" in response to a question she posed in the comment section of the Talk To Action web site, subsequently e-mailed with some suggestions about getting her book published, and Steve Mullins, my friend, confidant and Bob Seeger / Irish Folk Singer afficianado whom I met many months ago at the Rainbow Record store here in town, have both expressed strong interest in reading my stories.

Finally, words can never express my gratitude and appreciation to the Princess of Pith, Melanie Mattson, who blogs at http://www.beltwaybump.com/. The first time I ever commented on one of her posts, Melanie e-mailed me back, about 20 minutes later. Same thing the second time.

In response to my "Mark Ganzer now has a blog" e-mail, Melanie replied: "It's about damn time. Now enable comments on your blog and find out what it means to truly live ..."


Having written stories since age six (mom has likely kept them all), getting this kind of encouragement from people as loving, intelligent, intellectual and accomplished as these good friends is all the tinder needed to finally spark the writing flint.

A side benefit from documenting lived history comes from nuclear insights, not readily available from the living through the moments bombarding all five senses. For example, in December, 1988, when Adam was just a month past his fourth birthday, we were playing downstairs at his maternal grandparents' home. He called me BUTT HEAD! Thin-skinned and presumptuous, I was hurt and admonished him to never again call me that. He has not annointed that sobruiquet to me, at least in my presence.

Returning home and stiking out at the Smith-Corona keys, hoping to get some revenge for my hurt feelings, I detailed the incident to Marianne. Adam and I were flopping around the floor on all fours and intentionally crashing into each other. I described the action aloud in delighted detail, like a sports commentator, just as my four-years younger brother John and I used to do, many years ago.

"Head butts to the butt! Head butts to the ribs! Head butts to the head! Ooh, OUCH!"

My words from my mouth but now out in the light of day, visible to the mind's eye rather than raining upon the prejudiced reptillian brain, I experienced them much differently. Suddenly I SAW that what I had heard was divorced from the conclusion to which I had leapt. Butt head was homage to me and our game; our well spring of time well spent together. How rewarding to have taken the time to write Marianne and finally to have understood so clearly, so poigniantly and so deeply.

I vowed then to always give him the benefit of the doubt, to not cheapen his words with the counterfeit currency of my preconceived language biases, nor to punish him for my semantic shortcomings.

PSYCHOTHERAEUTIC HEALING LESSON #1:

When in a frustrated funk, or dealing with persistent pain -- physical or psychic -- seek an objective, non-judgmental human to talk with and help you carry your funk and / or your pain. Weakness comes not from asking for help, but from failing to recognize certain limitations; limitations of understanding, limitations of objectivity.

Trying to ignore and bury your frustrations, your pain, your feelings has unlimited potential for damage. All creatures buried alive will instinctively scrath and claw and crawl and fight to their last breath to get back to the air and light of day. This is the time for fight; there is no place for flight. The lizard brain goes into overdrive. A person buried alive can not resurface the same as before burial; more likely, less human, defensive, possessing of the rational fear of again being buried alive.

A hot, muggy August Saturday afternoon the following summer found Adam perched upon my lap. Suddenly his eyes alit, divinely inspired, while I immediately visualized what was about to happen -- my gut reaction antenae finely attuned to realities on the ground. Too lethargic to intervene, as if in a slow motion dream I watched as he clenched his hand into a fist which he buried past his wrist into the depths of my belly.

"Adam," I begged. "I'm a very, very, very old man. Please do not do that to me again." I could not be angry about his innate inquisitiveness, his scientific sensibilities, for after all, in America, surely that which is not specifically prohibited is permitted.

"You're old? How old are you?" the cherub chirped.

"I'm thirty-eight years old," I answered as Adam began to silnetly count, his lips moving every so slightly. By the time he reached 38, a relevant portion of his life had passed by. "You really ARE old," he said. "Are you going to die?" he continued, his train of thought its gathering a head of steam.

"Weekend Fatherhood 101" was not part of my liberal arts ciriculum, and I had no text book answer. What good were all those actuarial multiple choice exams I so proficiently passed so profficiently? While I have been a criminal much of my life, I'm not a liar. I answered immediately, instintively and honestly: "Yes Adam, I am going to die. Every creature ever born eventually dies. You too will someday die, but I love you so much, I'm not going to die for a long time."
PSYCHOTHERAEUTIC HEALING LESSON #2:

Always speak truth to children. Avoid evading their questions. They CAN handle the truth. If you lie to deceive them, even if you believe it is in their best interests, you do damage that can never be undone. You teach them to countenance lying. As Adam James Ganzer once told stated, while watching television on one of those holy, blessed and sacred Saturdays when it was just the boys -- me, my son and his cousins, "It's a shame when the truth is revealed to children."

Adam was not commenting upon truths of the moment, but rather, the later revealed truths about the lies and obfuscations of the past. Had you been there, watching the television show with the intense impeccability with which we were watching, you too would know the truth of this truth.

Three summers later when he was seven, Adam, he of the unbounded energy, exhorted me to race and play chase in the yard. I didn't want to. I was an old butt head. I said "no," a word he has seldom encountered from me. He called me a loser. I remembered my vow, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Why do you call me a loser?" I asked.

"Because you won't even run or race with me," flowed his frustrated answer. Had I not asked, I would haev assumed deeper meaning.

PSCYHOTHERAPEUTIC HEALING LESSON #3:

Two people use the same words are not necessarily speaking the same language, much less communicating effectively with each other.
With this background, I now cheerfully characterize myself as an old, butt head loser. The words are mine, but they are also gifts given me by my son -- perpetual reminders that:

A. Things are not always what they appear to be and
B. Words do not mean the same thing to different people.

Mark Ganzer
6 April, 2007