My father was born in the remote tip of Maine...just over the border was the river of his youth. He was a man of nature and history and loyalty to the end. He hated liars and people that weren't thankful for the life and land they lived in. He was a soldier, a husband, a brother, a father, and a friend to many. He told you the truth, always. He loved baseball and wrestling and dogs. He was a man of the world, but more so a man of this country.
My life with him has been tentative for so many reasons. I don't remember the very early years as he was gone by the time I was 4 years old. My mother was hard to live with and I would learn this throughout my life. I would eventually understand the distance between us was more because of her.
We came together again when I was 10. He was a stranger that I wanted to know. I had looked for him out my window for 6 years. I waited by the mailbox on birthdays and Christmases to see if he remembered who I was. I never got letters or cards, but I still sat there hoping. When I was 10 he gave me a garbage bag full of letters and cards he had carefully filled out and labeled with his own return address...all with my name on them and no address to send them too. I cannot remember this moment, ever, without crying. I was validated as a person and a daughter.
In those years, he taught me about history, Native Americans, architecture, woodworking, painting, hard labor, games, respect, honesty, truth, how to read maps, how to laugh, fishing, hiking, fiddle head picking, and how to make an apple pie. I learned that I was only as good as my word and behind all words there must be actions to back them up. He told me then that he named me Aleathia because it meant truth. This is a name that I have done my best in life to live up to though I have not always had a voice to speak it.
In all the years that we have been speaking to each other, but especially when I was 10-12, he always used to tell me "Improvise, Adapt. Overcome. Semper Fi". As a child, I am not sure I really understood what that meant. I knew he was a Marine and in Viet Nam. I also knew that this war and everything that happened to him there would always keep some sort of steel band around his heart. For a long time I hated the military, because I felt it stole him from me. These were childish thoughts for a hurt child.
The toughest decision I ever had to make was when I moved away from him at age 12. I was not sure what a future with him would mean and my mom had always been there for me despite it all. Before I left I remember my grandmother Regina sobbing and telling me that I was going to break his heart. I know that I did. It was one of the worst feelings I have ever felt. It may be the one decision in my life that I ever regret.
We stayed in touch over my years in high school and I was so thrilled when he came up to New York to watch me graduate high school with honors. Sadly, we drifted apart after that. I wandered around the country trying to "find myself". I had many journeys and pitfalls, but I always got back up. I remember reconnecting with him when he lived in Florida and I took a trip down there. It was a great time and also when I found out that I was pregnant with my daughter Chloe.
Connections between us were hit or miss and part of me was so angry that he didn't make an effort. I even went to counseling over the subject. My project was to write him a heart felt letter. I did this. 6 pages front and back and I sent it. I never heard back from him so I expected that was my answer...that I didn't mean anything to him. Years later I found out that he never got the letter and I had spent those years in anger for nothing.
I have to say that my renewed relationship with my father would have never emerged if it weren't for Michael. We were at my Aunt's funeral and Michael suggested I reach out to him. We stood outside the funeral home as he smoked and he asked me if I was happy. I told him I was. And he said that is very good. We didn't talk much more and I returned back to New York. Once home, I comiserated over how it didn't go well. Michael told me that he felt my father loved me and just because he couldn't show me that love the way I envision it doesn't mean he doesn't love me.
From that point forward, we started writing each other letters. We shared our lives and what we had missed. Sometimes we just talked about the weather, but it was fulfilling. I was again waiting by the mailbox and this time, there were letters. In the last year or so we had moved to phone conversations and anyone that knew Pop knew he hated the phone. I took it as a direct sign of love that he called me every week to talk. I am going to miss that the most.
This summer, Chloe and I went home for some time with Pop that didn't involve a damn funeral. We stayed there for 5 days and I feel like that might be the biggest present I could have ever given my daughter...the chance to meet him and know him for the great man he was. I am happy to have shared meals with him, walked the dog with him, and watered his tomatoes. I am happy to have good memories as my last memories.
During this trip, when no one else was around he told me that he thought I would have been a great Marine. I had to hold back the tears because this is the highest honor he could give a person. It meant that through the years I had Improvised, Adapted, and Overcome. I had lived my life in some semblance of truth and honor. That I had fought the good fight and lived to tell about it.
Pop...I am going to miss you. I am thankful for everything you taught me. For your quiet love, for your service to this country, for never giving up on me.
If you hear ringing...answer the phone. I'm calling you every week. I love you.
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