Today is Fathers’ Day and an important day for a lot of kids, both young and old, who remember the patriarch of the family with a great deal of love and respect. As for me, I have never coped with holidays very well. Most were tinged with sadness brought on by a variety of circumstances.
I grew up poor and, for me, so many of the wonderful fantasies associated with Christmas, Easter, etc., that are a part of every person’s life, just weren’t a part of my childhood. I can never forget how many times I searched my very soul for an answer as to why Santa Claus left us so little, all of which was practical, when I tried so hard to be a good kid. For reasons I could never explain, I just didn’t measure up to most other kids who were blessed by that charming old elf.
I will never forget the time the Easter Bunny didn’t bother to stop at our house. I was seven years old for that one. My brother, sister and I searched the house from top to bottom while my Mother quietly sobbed, sitting at the kitchen table. Finally, she said “Kids I hate to tell you this but the Easter Bunny didn’t come this year.” In that instant, Easter became a holiday that, to this day, I simply cannot enjoy. The old rabbit let me down and I was never quite able to forgive him for it.
When I was a very young boy just beginning to file memories away for later recall, I absolutely worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. He was gone from home a lot, away shearing sheep, working on various ranches, etc., so he could come home with enough money to sustain us for a few more months. I would so look forward to the day he would return and, as he came through the door, he would sweep me up in his arms and give me a big hug. I never felt so secure and happy than I did on those occasions. They were times that nourished my very soul. I can’t quite recall just how old I was at the time, but on one of his glorious returns, when I ran to him, he said, “Son, I think it is time we started shaking hands like real men.” I have never felt so rejected or as deeply hurt as I did at that moment. My world of safety, security and profound love for my Dad evaporated right before my eyes. To this day, some 60 plus years later, the pain of that initiation into the world of what he thought was that of “real men” has never left me and I never gave my Dad a pass for what he did. I loved him so much.
My Dad grew up even poorer than I and I am sure he had more than his share of disappointments, as well, but which he rarely talked about to anyone. He kept them to himself, but whatever the pain of those experiences was, caused him to despise his own Father. It led him to engage in a variety of hopes, dreams and fantasies that never materialized, but which he held to tenaciously for his entire life. He loved horses and so regretted that he wasn’t born a hundred years earlier so he could have lived the life of a “real” cowboy. The only time I saw tears in his eyes was when he recounted that wish to me. I wanted to cry with him, but I didn’t.
My Dad was a good horseman and was never happier than when he was on a horse. He had an eye for good horse flesh and trained them all extremely well. He gave his all to rodeo competition in calf roping and cow cutting, knowing all the time that one day soon he would be the World’s Champion Calf Roper or Cow Cutter. The dream eluded him and he never made the first string. Oh, there are still a few of his trophies around but they were more consolation prizes than that of a winner, and he knew it. Hey, something was better than nothing but I always knew the pain of disappointment was there deep within him. He had a good singing voice and he gave it his all. He knew that one day someone would come along who would recognize his talent. He was certain that he would shoot to the top of the game, with all the attendant fame and fortune it would bring. Like so many of his dreams, that one died a quiet death, as well.
He was a stern disciplinarian, the sting of which I felt once in a while. But he was absolutely brutal to my older brother. As I grew older I became aware of the disparity with his affections and came to bitterly resent him for it. He tried to vicariously relive his life as a rodeo cowboy through me. I humored him by going through the motions, but that was not my bag. He was devastated when I told him that I wanted to go to college and be a professional man. Our relationship was never quite the same after that.
He felt that so much of that to which he was rightfully entitled had been denied him. Behaviorally, that notion manifested itself in selfishness at the expense of his family. A good Stetson hat and a pair of custom made boots where his right. We three kids were going to school with holes in the soles of our shoes. He would let us know that he was poor as a kid and now it was our turn to sacrifice so he could have what he had missed. All it did was to reinforce a seething anger that was growing within me.
He was a rounder of the first order. It seemed as if there was always another woman in his life. We all suffered that indulgence, but none more than my Mother. She remained silent and, I am sure, felt very much alone in the face of that assault on her rightful role as wife and partner. It was a part of him that was manifest most of his adult life and it took a terrible toll on our family. My anger towards him only intensified.
The estrangement from my Dad followed in the wake of one of these numerous dalliances. I just couldn’t take any more, so I cut off all contact with him for over four years. I had long ago ceased to care what he was feeling. As the ice gradually melted we, too, mellowed but things were never quite the same.
So, what lessons did I take from these formative years in my young life? I learned not to trust at a very early age. I played it close to the hip and never let my guard down. I learned that love was the stuff of movies but was rarely a part of real life. I learned that being vulnerable was a sure sign of weakness and of a fundamentally flawed character. The skeletons of the past were better left in the closet. I cannot recall my Dad ever manifesting vulnerability or real love. He could be charming, witty and affable, but I doubt that few, if any, ever really saw the authentic and genuine Bill. And, most of all, I learned that success in life meant you pursued a goal that would net you the most money in the shortest period of time so the specter of poverty would never again darken your door. That was the course I set for myself and I never wavered. In the end, it only brought me an ocean of disappointment in what I was versus what I could have and should have been. A career in broadcast journalism would have made me as happy as a clam, but the risks associated with real success were too frightening for me. Instead, I chose a career that I hated every waking moment of my working life and made me one of the best professional whores in the business. Fear of failure became my nemesis and I always played it safe. As a result, I never gave it my best, my employer never got full measure and I never had an ounce of satisfaction in what I did.
As the years have passed, I no longer subscribe to the notion that being a real man is necessarily synonymous with being macho. Being a real man takes a lot of character. Being macho is nothing more than posturing and bluster. Real men are not afraid to be open and vulnerable to those near and dear to their hearts. Real men don’t withhold their hugs, an arm around the shoulders or a pat on the back and don’t try to substitute a hand shake for the real deal. Real men know that love is so much more than what is tied to their sexual virility. Real men accept the fact that maturity and age are an unavoidable part of the life process. They don’t try to substitute erection enhancing drugs for the wisdom and character that only comes from a life honestly and well lived. They know that love quickly morphs from hormone overload into endearing affection for those they care so deeply about.
I find it rather curious that all of the qualities Our Dear Lord mandated that we should be are, more often than not, the very qualities looked upon with the greatest disdain by those who subscribe to the masculine myth.
My Dad and I never had the opportunity to mend the fences between us because of distance and separate lives. Only once did we have the chance to sit at a bar and tip a few together. I recall looking him right in the eye and asking him how many women he had “known” in his life. Without a second of hesitation he answered, 97. I was stunned and I asked what made him do it. He looked at me with eyes like those of a cherished pet who has been severely scolded and replied, “Bob, don’t ask me because I can’t tell you.” I knew I was probing into a part of his life where I had no business going. But I did realize that there was something there that was so much more difficult than I could ever imagine and I really didn’t want to pursue it any further. I have speculated on all sorts of reasons that could explain his behavior, but for the sake of his memory and my own peace of mine I, too, know that it is best left at its place in time.
I never got to his funeral because of s snowstorm in Southern Wyoming. As a consequence, we never really had the chance to make peace with each other. But, as the years have passed, I see him in a different light. His life and his failures are his for all time to come. It is best left there. However, I have come to realize that he probably was gripped by many of the same fears in his life that have been with me in mine. Intimacy was impossible for him; it has been difficult for me. He probably knew many times in his life when he ached to bare his soul and reveal his demons to someone close to him, just to ease the pain of the burdens he carried, but there was never anyone he could trust enough. As I write these words I realize that they aren’t necessarily pearls of wisdom coming from my intellect but, rather, are visceral insights into my own life.
I have forgiven my Dad. Now, in the twilight years of my own life, I pray every night that my Creator will help me to internalize and manifest what I regard as the four greatest attributes of the human condition:
1. Unconditional love
2. Unconditional acceptance
3. Unconditional understanding
4. Unconditional forgiveness
Those are, in my humble opinion. the four cornerstones of a well-adjusted human being. Without question, the most noble is forgiveness.
Fear, in all of its manifestations, is surely our greatest enemy.
As I reflect on this Father’s Day I cannot help but wonder how much of my better side has been denied my two children because of the way I am wired. The old adage to the effect that “The apple does not fall far from the tree,” scares me. Perhaps the time has come for me to ask them before it is too late.
Happy Father’s Day.
Cowboy Bob
June 15, 2008
I grew up poor and, for me, so many of the wonderful fantasies associated with Christmas, Easter, etc., that are a part of every person’s life, just weren’t a part of my childhood. I can never forget how many times I searched my very soul for an answer as to why Santa Claus left us so little, all of which was practical, when I tried so hard to be a good kid. For reasons I could never explain, I just didn’t measure up to most other kids who were blessed by that charming old elf.
I will never forget the time the Easter Bunny didn’t bother to stop at our house. I was seven years old for that one. My brother, sister and I searched the house from top to bottom while my Mother quietly sobbed, sitting at the kitchen table. Finally, she said “Kids I hate to tell you this but the Easter Bunny didn’t come this year.” In that instant, Easter became a holiday that, to this day, I simply cannot enjoy. The old rabbit let me down and I was never quite able to forgive him for it.
When I was a very young boy just beginning to file memories away for later recall, I absolutely worshipped the ground my Dad walked on. He was gone from home a lot, away shearing sheep, working on various ranches, etc., so he could come home with enough money to sustain us for a few more months. I would so look forward to the day he would return and, as he came through the door, he would sweep me up in his arms and give me a big hug. I never felt so secure and happy than I did on those occasions. They were times that nourished my very soul. I can’t quite recall just how old I was at the time, but on one of his glorious returns, when I ran to him, he said, “Son, I think it is time we started shaking hands like real men.” I have never felt so rejected or as deeply hurt as I did at that moment. My world of safety, security and profound love for my Dad evaporated right before my eyes. To this day, some 60 plus years later, the pain of that initiation into the world of what he thought was that of “real men” has never left me and I never gave my Dad a pass for what he did. I loved him so much.
My Dad grew up even poorer than I and I am sure he had more than his share of disappointments, as well, but which he rarely talked about to anyone. He kept them to himself, but whatever the pain of those experiences was, caused him to despise his own Father. It led him to engage in a variety of hopes, dreams and fantasies that never materialized, but which he held to tenaciously for his entire life. He loved horses and so regretted that he wasn’t born a hundred years earlier so he could have lived the life of a “real” cowboy. The only time I saw tears in his eyes was when he recounted that wish to me. I wanted to cry with him, but I didn’t.
My Dad was a good horseman and was never happier than when he was on a horse. He had an eye for good horse flesh and trained them all extremely well. He gave his all to rodeo competition in calf roping and cow cutting, knowing all the time that one day soon he would be the World’s Champion Calf Roper or Cow Cutter. The dream eluded him and he never made the first string. Oh, there are still a few of his trophies around but they were more consolation prizes than that of a winner, and he knew it. Hey, something was better than nothing but I always knew the pain of disappointment was there deep within him. He had a good singing voice and he gave it his all. He knew that one day someone would come along who would recognize his talent. He was certain that he would shoot to the top of the game, with all the attendant fame and fortune it would bring. Like so many of his dreams, that one died a quiet death, as well.
He was a stern disciplinarian, the sting of which I felt once in a while. But he was absolutely brutal to my older brother. As I grew older I became aware of the disparity with his affections and came to bitterly resent him for it. He tried to vicariously relive his life as a rodeo cowboy through me. I humored him by going through the motions, but that was not my bag. He was devastated when I told him that I wanted to go to college and be a professional man. Our relationship was never quite the same after that.
He felt that so much of that to which he was rightfully entitled had been denied him. Behaviorally, that notion manifested itself in selfishness at the expense of his family. A good Stetson hat and a pair of custom made boots where his right. We three kids were going to school with holes in the soles of our shoes. He would let us know that he was poor as a kid and now it was our turn to sacrifice so he could have what he had missed. All it did was to reinforce a seething anger that was growing within me.
He was a rounder of the first order. It seemed as if there was always another woman in his life. We all suffered that indulgence, but none more than my Mother. She remained silent and, I am sure, felt very much alone in the face of that assault on her rightful role as wife and partner. It was a part of him that was manifest most of his adult life and it took a terrible toll on our family. My anger towards him only intensified.
The estrangement from my Dad followed in the wake of one of these numerous dalliances. I just couldn’t take any more, so I cut off all contact with him for over four years. I had long ago ceased to care what he was feeling. As the ice gradually melted we, too, mellowed but things were never quite the same.
So, what lessons did I take from these formative years in my young life? I learned not to trust at a very early age. I played it close to the hip and never let my guard down. I learned that love was the stuff of movies but was rarely a part of real life. I learned that being vulnerable was a sure sign of weakness and of a fundamentally flawed character. The skeletons of the past were better left in the closet. I cannot recall my Dad ever manifesting vulnerability or real love. He could be charming, witty and affable, but I doubt that few, if any, ever really saw the authentic and genuine Bill. And, most of all, I learned that success in life meant you pursued a goal that would net you the most money in the shortest period of time so the specter of poverty would never again darken your door. That was the course I set for myself and I never wavered. In the end, it only brought me an ocean of disappointment in what I was versus what I could have and should have been. A career in broadcast journalism would have made me as happy as a clam, but the risks associated with real success were too frightening for me. Instead, I chose a career that I hated every waking moment of my working life and made me one of the best professional whores in the business. Fear of failure became my nemesis and I always played it safe. As a result, I never gave it my best, my employer never got full measure and I never had an ounce of satisfaction in what I did.
As the years have passed, I no longer subscribe to the notion that being a real man is necessarily synonymous with being macho. Being a real man takes a lot of character. Being macho is nothing more than posturing and bluster. Real men are not afraid to be open and vulnerable to those near and dear to their hearts. Real men don’t withhold their hugs, an arm around the shoulders or a pat on the back and don’t try to substitute a hand shake for the real deal. Real men know that love is so much more than what is tied to their sexual virility. Real men accept the fact that maturity and age are an unavoidable part of the life process. They don’t try to substitute erection enhancing drugs for the wisdom and character that only comes from a life honestly and well lived. They know that love quickly morphs from hormone overload into endearing affection for those they care so deeply about.
I find it rather curious that all of the qualities Our Dear Lord mandated that we should be are, more often than not, the very qualities looked upon with the greatest disdain by those who subscribe to the masculine myth.
My Dad and I never had the opportunity to mend the fences between us because of distance and separate lives. Only once did we have the chance to sit at a bar and tip a few together. I recall looking him right in the eye and asking him how many women he had “known” in his life. Without a second of hesitation he answered, 97. I was stunned and I asked what made him do it. He looked at me with eyes like those of a cherished pet who has been severely scolded and replied, “Bob, don’t ask me because I can’t tell you.” I knew I was probing into a part of his life where I had no business going. But I did realize that there was something there that was so much more difficult than I could ever imagine and I really didn’t want to pursue it any further. I have speculated on all sorts of reasons that could explain his behavior, but for the sake of his memory and my own peace of mine I, too, know that it is best left at its place in time.
I never got to his funeral because of s snowstorm in Southern Wyoming. As a consequence, we never really had the chance to make peace with each other. But, as the years have passed, I see him in a different light. His life and his failures are his for all time to come. It is best left there. However, I have come to realize that he probably was gripped by many of the same fears in his life that have been with me in mine. Intimacy was impossible for him; it has been difficult for me. He probably knew many times in his life when he ached to bare his soul and reveal his demons to someone close to him, just to ease the pain of the burdens he carried, but there was never anyone he could trust enough. As I write these words I realize that they aren’t necessarily pearls of wisdom coming from my intellect but, rather, are visceral insights into my own life.
I have forgiven my Dad. Now, in the twilight years of my own life, I pray every night that my Creator will help me to internalize and manifest what I regard as the four greatest attributes of the human condition:
1. Unconditional love
2. Unconditional acceptance
3. Unconditional understanding
4. Unconditional forgiveness
Those are, in my humble opinion. the four cornerstones of a well-adjusted human being. Without question, the most noble is forgiveness.
Fear, in all of its manifestations, is surely our greatest enemy.
As I reflect on this Father’s Day I cannot help but wonder how much of my better side has been denied my two children because of the way I am wired. The old adage to the effect that “The apple does not fall far from the tree,” scares me. Perhaps the time has come for me to ask them before it is too late.
Happy Father’s Day.
Cowboy Bob
June 15, 2008
1 comment:
Hi Bob,
I enjoyed all of your stories very much...a few recalled memories.
I am Carole, Edith's daughter and
do remeber you and your family. We always called you cousins and "Grandma" Crowder.
Betty Jo was going to send your email address, but I think she had some problems.
Looking forward to your next entry.
Carole
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