Ode to an Outdoorsman

My dad died on this day 19 years ago. I was 6.

I can count my memories of him on one hand. I’ve recounted them to myself over and over to not forget them, and now I doubt if they’re real. He feels like a fictional character that I’m desperately trying to understand with the limited resources I have. If you were to ask me who my dad was, I would look like the meme of Charlie Day pointing to a wall covered in red string.

I have newspaper clippings, stories from my family, and old notes he wrote. I’m constantly reminded how much I look like him. I put all these things together, hoping to come out with a clear picture of what he was like. Instead, I get a blurry image of a strange man, or a Picasso-like portrait with missing features.

I grew up hearing many of the same things: my dad loved the outdoors, he was a star athlete, and he was a natural leader. I spent most of my childhood and teen years feeling like I could never measure up to this idol. I looked like him, but I definitely wasn’t him. I was a quiet, sensitive kid who would rather stay inside reading or playing video games than playing football. In my mind, the father I didn’t know was what I thought it meant to be masculine, and it was an image I just didn’t fit.

In my research to learn more about this mystery figure, I’ve dug deep enough to strike his flaws. Those that knew him best have told me a bit about his inner demons, and sometimes they feel obligated to break apart the perfect picture I have of him in my head.

The little boy in me is building a sandcastle to my father, and sometimes I learn something that feels like someone ran by and kicked it over.

Why is any of this important? I’ve been told that my fascination with my father is ill-founded, and that I should be more grateful to have my stepdad around. My counselor pointed out that any time I bring up my dad, I mention my stepdad in the same breath, like I feel guilty for wanting to know who my dad was. I’ve been learning that it’s okay to want to know who my dad was, while also loving my stepdad. He stepped into my life and taught me what fatherhood is. My stepdad is patient, kind, and graceful. He does justice, loves mercy, and walks humbly. I admire him, and I’m beyond proud to call him “father”.

But I also long to know about the man whose blood runs through my veins.

I love the movie Big Fish, which uses the story of a dying father to ask his son which is better: To tell the truth, even if it’s bland and harsh, or to tell a good story to inspire and enrich, even if it stretches the truth? As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gone back and forth on which I prefer. The old cynic in me wants to know all the harsh truths. I want to know the broken parts of him, to know that he wasn’t perfect. But the little boy in me wants to keep thinking that he was everything I thought he was. Is it so wrong to listen to the child in me? To let my imagination of my father inspire me? I suppose the answer is somewhere in the middle. Just because he wasn’t perfect doesn’t mean he can’t inspire me.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop as I write this, and there is not a price I wouldn’t pay to have him sitting accross from me for an hour. I’d ask him everything. I’d ask him to tell me about his childhood, and what he wanted to be when he grew up. I’d ask him to tell me about what it was like to fall in love with my mom, and how he knew she was the one for him. I’d ask him about his regrets, his shame, and what made him angry. I’d ask him, “If you knew you were going to die, what would you have told your six year old son? What wisdom would you have left me with?”

Hopefully we’ll meet in heaven, and I’ll get to ask him all of the above. Until then, you all will just have to listen to my sad musings.

Thanks for reading.