My father passed away in 2004. I miss him, and lately I’ve been feeling rather nostalgic about him. I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood, and the time I was able to spend with him while he was still alive.
The thing I remember the most about my father, besides his two pack of cigarettes per day habit, and him hiding booze bottles around the house because he thought we didn’t know he had a drinking problem, was a conversation we had a few months before I turned eighteen. I had just told him that I was thinking about taking a year off after high school and not going to college right away.
My dad took a long drag on his cigarette, paused the video game he was playing, and set the hand controller down on the coffee table. He looked up at me for a long moment, then said, “Okay. Where are you going to live?”
I was puzzled by his response and answered him with a carefully considered, “Huh?”
He told me that he had saved some money and he was planning to use it to help me pay for college. He said if I decided to not go to college, he would write me a check for half of the total amount that he had put aside for my education, then he would help me pack so I could move out on my eighteenth birthday.
I asked him if he was kidding or being serious about making me move out. He just picked up the game controller and turned back to his game.
I started college in September that year.
I know what you are all thinking. “Who the heck writes checks?” But you have to remember this was in the 1980’s, so give the old guy a break.
I used to think that he told me that story because he felt strongly about me going to college and wanted to scare me into going. Now that I have two children of college age myself, I am not so sure that was his only motivation. I think he just wanted me to get the hell out of his house.
As I think about it, there were other signs that my dad wanted me to leave. There was the time I was fifteen years-old and he suggested I should run away from home. I asked him why he was being so mean to me and he said, “I’m not mean. If you run away, I would be happy to fix you a sandwich for the trip. In fact, if you leave right now I’ll even throw in a cookie.”
While the cookie was tempting, I had school the next day and I needed someone to drive me there, so I declined the offer.
To be fair to my father, I was the youngest of three boys and my oldest brother is thirteen years older than I am. My dad had been dealing with kids of various ages in his house for over thirty years, and he was tired of having us around. And I don’t blame him.
I know I can’t wait until my kids have moved out and I can have my life back. No more sporting events and recitals to go to. No more school fund raisers I have to participate in. Just an occasional long-distance phone call to say, “Hi, dad. I need money.” The rest of the time would once more belong to me.
I used to wonder why birds abandoned their nests and built new ones every year. Now, I know. It’s because the kids know where it is, and you can’t change the locks on a nest.
My dad wanted me to leave the nest. Either with a goal in my mind, or a footprint on my ass, he just wanted me to go.
As I write this blog and I sit here thinking about my father, I wish I could build a time machine and go back to talk to my teenage self. There are three very important things I would like to tell me.
One: hug your parents more often. You are going to miss them one day.
Two: when the chemistry teacher is talking, you should pay more attention. Eyebrows take several weeks to grow back.
And three: when your dad makes you angry, instead of yelling and fighting with him, just tell him you are going to convert the garage into an apartment and live with him forever. I guarantee you’ll win every argument.