A Son’s Promise to Become a Dad
The lesson’s of youth shape our choice to become adults or remain children.
I will become a Father that speaks using words of kindness. A man with a sense of purpose, mirroring compassionate strength for his children, modeling joy in spirit, full of life. I will be a dad who transforms a Saturday at home into an adventure. When hiking trails to remote ghost towns and fishing high mountain lakes while welcoming a new morning with cups of hot chocolate becomes a permanent childhood memory, I will know I have become a Dad. I am a man of patience, teaching his young children skills of independence, growing their confidence, listening to their frustration, and offering guidance from my own lessons. A Dad shows his vulnerability by demonstrating an open heart with the people he loves.
“You know what your problem is. You have no motivation,” the slurred words interrupted my Saturday morning round of cartoons. I instinctively burrowed down in the plush couch, attempting to cover myself with two Star War’s printed blankets, setting aside a box of peanut butter crunch cereal I’d been mindlessly eating.
“It must be nice having so much free time. Enjoying yourself with what I provide? The least you could do is not leave cereal crumbs all over my couch.”
He drank early. I watched him stumble over to the television, draining liquid from a brown bottle clutched in his hand.
“I’m disappointed in your laziness,” he said, voiding my colorful cartoons by pushing a button. “Make yourself useful. Show me some initiative,” he mumbled, making his way from the living room to the kitchen.
His quick destructive attack ruined this morning’s promise for childlike excitement. The disappointment in his voice blossomed a painful knot inside my chest, causing me to believe my uselessness, sitting selfishly under fluffy blankets, watching silly programs.
I couldn’t move, shell shocked, staring at a black television screen, telling myself to never cause my own child to ever feel unsafe. I didn’t move, listening to clinging glass from the kitchen, wondering if anything might ignite more of his ridicule.
I imagined my own son sitting on our couch during a run of Saturday morning cartoons. Then I dreamed of greeting him, meeting his childhood enjoyment, welcoming a peaceful weekend with me at home.
“Good morning,” my jovial voice belly boomed, greeting my son, laughing at his morning television shows. “It’s going to be a fun day. We’re going to take out the boat this morning for some fishing,” I said, opening up the living room, pulling heavy black-out curtains apart, letting beams of yellow sunshine stream inside brightening white walls. “I’ll need you to get ready in about an hour while I get started on breakfast.”
The smells of sizzling bacon accompanied my humming rendition of a song cheerfully playing from the radio manifested magic within our home. A whole-hearted offering of happiness for my son. To awaken him from under television’s spell, guiding him towards the kitchen to join in the preparation of our morning breakfast created by happy spirits.
“Where’s my God damn bottle opener!” He cursed, raging over empty drawers, flinging cabinets full of dishes open, searching illogically for his silver bottle opener. A key lying in plain sight beside his unopened bottle of beer.
I stood quietly observing him from the kitchen entry, listening to a joyless song crackle from a small box radio above an old refrigerator.
“Where’d you hide it?” He accused, slamming unused cookware on the marble countertop. “I’ve told you, put things back where you find ’em. If you can’t be respectful of my things, then you got no business using them at all!”
The empty tunes from our miserable radio mixed with an invading aroma of bacon cooked by our neighbor drifting in an open window. The smell, entering the kitchen over a dripping sink overflowing with dishes of caked-on food, tried to penetrate my Father’s miserable world. After locating his silver bottle opener, his demeanor changed, disarming another landmine, offering him an everyday distraction from himself.
“Hey buddy, you want to help mix the batter?” I asked, sipping from a large mug of coffee, carefully turning bacon on an electric griddle. “We can use this bacon grease to add flavor to our pancakes,” I shared with my son, humming along to a song from the radio.
I watched my son enthusiastically approach the kitchen island. He was presented with a glass bowl sitting among a display of ingredients we needed to create our breakfast. A box of Krustex Pancake Mix, a half-gallon of whole milk, a glass bottle of imitation vanilla, a bag of sugar, and a carton of eggs. An opportunity to share in a morning routine, developing life skills, making memories as a family.
“I suppose we could have made this from scratch,” I confessed, knowing the box of Krustex made cooking less frustrating. I wanted him to experience a stress-free learning opportunity.
I handed my son a measuring cup from the drawer, sharing that we could add our own ingredients. I watched him scoop two cups of pancake mix into the glass bowl. Then hinted at what our secret ingredient might be from items set on the counter.
“Bacon grease,” he laughed, dropping clouds of mix into the bowl.
“Bacon grease and sugar,” I smiled, pouring out the contents of griddle’s catch into the batter. “Crack some eggs in the bowl. I’m going to crisp up the rest of this bacon.” I encouraged him after stirring in a helping of sugar into the mixture.
“What are you staring at?” Father questioned me, beer foaming over the top of his freshly opened bottle.
I blinked, observing his motions. The mechanical lifting of the bottle to his mouth, resulting in him drinking like a lizard.
“Make yourself useful and take care of this pile of garbage,” he ordered, pointing to the kitchen corner where towers of trash threatened spilling over onto a black stained floor. Then he threw an empty trash bag at me from his collection of random items strewn about the kitchen counter. The result of his quest for the elusive bottle opener.
Fat hairy fly’s swarmed around me as I started to disturb their city. He drank, watching me pick through coffee grinds covering wrappers dripping with toxic vomit. I shoveled as fast as I could into the trash bag, wanting to end my penance, breathing through my mouth, trying to avoid inhaling the burning fumes of decomposing flesh that forced me to cry.
When I finished, he tossed in his empty bottle, causing it to spray a mixture of gravy and juice onto my face. I closed up the garbage bag, imprisoning it while he beamed with pride over tossing the bottle skillfully into the bag.
“When you’re finished taking it, output a new liner in the can. Then you can put this stuff back where it belongs.”
I dragged the heavy sack along a stain-spotted carpet to the garage. Then located the waste can behind a once-proud fishing boat. Uncared storage of neglect became the fate of past fishing memories and morning meals on the water. The adventures I once had with my Father overtook my task. I let the bag of rubbish rest while I examined the ship’s hull. I picked at chipped, peeling away her magic.
“I knew I’d find you out here. Looks like you’re all ready for another fishing adventure,” I said, walking past my son as he modeled a miniature fisherman’s outfit.
“I even dug up some worms,” he said, holding up a coffee can full of dirt, wiggling with life.
“I just need to get everything hooked up, then we can get going,” I said, opening the garage door, revealing our polished white truck.
The ghosts of my past visit me, remind me of my Father. The man he used to be during his sobriety. I grab at the trash, lifting the bag into an empty garbage can. I wish for him to return. But a broken fishing boat speaks the truth to my hopeful dreams, declaring me to become the Dad I deserve.
Copyright Christopher Madsen 2021