This post may get me a Nastygram from someone who can’t be bothered with me except to bitch at me.
Fuck you and if you have the temerity to e-scream at me, I WILL forward your email address to people who will “go full on Redneck” on you. And various other things from other folks.
If you’re not a friend on Facebook, you haven’t seen my most recent post about feeling fragile today. If you are a regular here or know me in “real” life, then you know that a) my father, Clifford R. Thatcher, Jr. passed away December 16,2011 and b) (you may correctly surmise) that I had a complicated relationship with same.
Picture of paternal DNA source with a counted cross-stitch I spent MONTHS completely that he decided looked best in the bathroom:
I never needed to marry my father as women are said to do. I AM my father. It’s not an attractive personality as far as men are concerned.
One of my friends recently (like within the last month) lost her dad (with whom she was far closer than I was with mine). And we had Father’s Day last week. Not that CRT, Jr. was a big fan, but he did appreciate the gifts when we got inspired. And there was a legendary Father’s Day when he gave HIS dad (Gramp) a very nice (expensive) woodworking tool and we gave Dad an expensive gift (I forget what). My grandmother, KLH Thatcher was somewhat jealous (although, while she was on this plane, going and genuflecting on Mother’s Day was required unless you wanted to be frozen out). Over the dinner table, she made the comment a couple of times that “I wish I was a father. You get such nice gifts.” MY father, her only son (begotten or otherwise. He could have been Jesus: as far as we knew, my grandmother never lost her virginity), looked at her (after several martinis) and said, “You may not be a father, but you certainly are a mother.”
You could hear the sphincters snap shut around the table.
What got me today was the thought that I would never again hear him snoring from down the hall. Oh, we raise Olympic level snoring champs in our family. Gold medalists, all.
That sound (lucky for me, from down the hall) was the sound that gave me comfort. If I heard it, I knew Dad was home and everything was okay (for the most part). I didn’t need to concern myself with household security, paying the bills or any of that stuff. That snore meant that if I got sick in the night (and you had to barf to get out of school), there would be someone to help me get back to bed and check on me the next day. I didn’t have to be responsible; someone else had it covered.
I stayed pretty tightly wrapped for most of the day. I focused as much as I could on my work and ignored people so that I wouldn’t cry. Yeah. I was that close.
I’ve been in Shark Mode for 6 months: keep swimming forward or else you’ll die (or end up as a metaphor in a Woody Allen movie).
Those of you who have something CONSTRUCTIVE to contribute, please do so.