My Father, who Art in America.

Last night, dammit, it happened again. If you knew my father, which you don't -- I'm still working on it here at 42, private man and all -- you'd know within a minute of talking to him, that he's a gentle man.

One of my best memories with him, is walking in the woods (many, many times), the time right near our home, we came upon the does and offspring. A herd, maybe 5 or 6, who stood silent for a few seconds, before running off up the ridge. We froze, me and he, knowing what to do in the presence of feral animals -- stand, hold your ground, remain silent, just observe. We'd seen deer before many times, of course. It was when we turned, trudged on down the path a bit, and came upon the buck that was truly memorable.

Usually, the buck lives alone. (Read Felix Salten's Bambi, if you haven't yet; you're in for a treat...) Visits the does to breed in rut, naturally, but for the most part, keeps to himself, deep, deep in the woods. Places where paths just don't go anymore, or you'd have to be out a good hour or two in overgrown, mosquito-and-bug ridden territory, determined to get there. But where? Nowhere really, just deep in, which is why even the most hardy hikers don't bother press on.

I don't remember the season we saw him together, maybe spring, maybe mid-summer. But we both knew, without saying, it was rare to see one in those parts of the woods, out on the edges of the forest preserve, not deep in. We froze. Must have stood there 3 minutes, just looking deep in his eyes. He had full antlers, so maybe it was early summer even. He was old, as Illinois has no hunting in their forest preserve, and of course, Thornton environs are known for their limestone -- if you travel interstates, you may have passed over our quarry...

It was the most magnificent thing, standing there thinking. I believe he saw how respectful we were with the rest of the pack, not talking nor charging at the does. My dad is a gentle man, always good with animals -- I was given a dog, half lab/half collie, smart thing, for 7th grade Confirmation from my cousin/sponsor, but she mostly took to my father. No sudden moves, a kind man -- animals are drawn to that type of personality. He taught her to shake paws, trained her not to run off-leash, but then instinctively, I think she knew she had nothing to run from with him. In the woods, when she was alive, she would smile while running ahead, looking back every 50 yards or 75 yards or so, shorter distances when there were curves in the path, to make sure she was good. In the woods, she always was. Run. Have fun. Sniff and wag and circle madly when she smelled mice in the hollow trunk of a tree. (He'd take his ever-present walking stick, poke around in there where there was an open hole, and drive out the smaller critters, watching her excitement as she pounced on the fleeing grey under the leaves and seeking other shelter. Rarely did she catch and shake one; it was in the thrill of the pursuit.)

But that day, the dog had already died. And it was just me and him, standing making eye contact with the buck. He -- the animal -- moved eventually, his head not his body, yet he didn't take off right away. What was he thinking -- either of them -- I don't really know. But something passed between all of us there. To me, I think the buck was giving a chance to look him over, up close, before eventually running off himself. I do think he had seen us earlier, and knew we were good natured based on how conducted ourselves, and deliberately revealed himself to us, or at least didn't hide this one time...


I'm sharing the good memory now, because I remember the lowest I've seen my father too. He hated, hated G.W. Bush's arrogance and immaturity -- everything that man represented as America.* Could not understand how we could KILL, KILL, KILL all those innocents in our "shock and awe" campaigns, and pursue Iraq and Afghanistan without a plan. We were some of the few intelligent enough to see how that would all turn out, and while not protesters who would ever waste time parading in the streets, we were right about how silly it is to try and kill your way to peace.

Last night, when I called, I had my conversation fodder prepared: the change in weather, finally, here up north; the moon, which naturally he had seen on the news, but was something to talk about. We didn't touch on the Libya folly, but I knew he knew. Never said it before, but ended our conversation thanking him, "for making me American."

You see, when you make the sacrifices he has, and you're an old man looking back, naturally you take measure. And if you're honest, you look to see if you chose well, or if there are regrets. During the second Bush regime, he was physically sickened I think, by what was lost, financially and in terms of life. And now here it is, happening all over again. Eight years on, more mindless war, over there.

It was the 56th anniversary of his leaving home -- March 18, 1955. He was a fresh 23; I may have erred in the numbers in earlier retellings. He gave up so much, and yet gained so much here. But when you see what America is becoming, has become, I know it's crossed his mind ... was it worth it? Not in terms of dollars, of course, we've never been a family that measured that way alone. But in terms of whether there's any soul left here. Are we a decent country anymore, one to be proud of, one that chooses the right path, even at such great costs...

America in those days was a beacon. Of Strength, of Goodness, of Morality. We didn't act in our own interests alone, and our wise men at least aimed for Wisdom. Or perhaps, our sins were just greater hidden...

Either way, I wish the hope and change promised were more genuine. You might think, owing to his background and popular stereotype, he'd hold prejudices of his own. You'd be wrong. Never have I met a man who was so fair in his judgments of others: he had an observant and quiet temperament which served him well, and usually proved correct in his assessments. There was disappointment in that brogue last night, and I could tell he'd been re-assessing.

Sometimes I think that those children born never knowing their fathers have it easier somehow. No need to measure up, no need to break away and stand alone, no need to challenge the past, and still prove worthy in those other eyes. I've been blessed to have a faithful father: loyal, kind, and good. But they say those types hurt more easily, and it's true, as I've seen. Still, I wouldn't trade him in or change a thing, as they've unfolded naturally.

"Thanks for making me American, Dad" that's how we ended the conversation. He just gave a quiet grunt, but I know he'll spend plenty of time thinking about it. A rare trait these days, it seems.

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*One of the few books I've seen my father read, all the way through, was Bushworld, that someone gave him, our neighbor or one of my sisters, as a Christmas gift, knowing his proclivities against Might over Right. He'd have to put it down every so many pages, and sit there quietly thinking, digesting in disgust, it seemed.

** For TNC. Thanks for the spur.

*** More of the ignorant, immoral mentality on display. "It’s good that he was killed. It’s bad that he wasn’t killed a lot sooner." Killing, it's all their little brains can think of as solutions, it seems. God help us all. May it come back 10 times over to you and yours, one day when you're not so powerful as you think you are now. "Do Unto Others..." and all that.