My father and I this last Easter.
My father was born in upstate New York in 1961, to a beautiful woman named Barbara. His father left immediately after he was born. They never met. His mother remarried and provided my father with five siblings. Raymond, Jaime, Deanna, Jared, and Justin. I don't know much about my father's childhood. He's told me a few stories about all the sports he played, and some of the shenanigans his friends and him would get into. The things I remember the most though are the stories about his step father beating him so badly with a belt that his basketball coach wouldn't let him dress out. Sleeping in a room during the freezing months of winter with a broken window.
He used to tell me stories of when times were hard. His mother would make them pancakes for breakfast and dinner for weeks at a time. Or potatoes. Oh how easily a man could sick of potatoes. He used to run through the neighboring fields of the farmers and steal corn off the stalks when he was hungry. He'd sneak out at night then come home and boil a dozen of them and eat them all. These are the stories of his childhood I know best.
I know that by the time he turned eighteen and was off to join the navy, his sister Deanna was the youngest and last of his siblings to be born before he left. My father was stationed in San Diego shortly after he joined. He served his four years, and then went on to work a series of odd jobs. My father has always been a great cook, and he worked in several restaurants in his younger years. That is how he met my mother, Dana. She was a waitress. Neither one of my parents have given me insight into the beginning years of there relationship. All I know is that one night, my parents decided they wanted to make a baby. Nine moths later, I was born.
Now you may think that from here the story will become about me, but that is not case. My father and mother split up shortly after I was born. Then due to my mothers drug habits and my fathers instability, I was placed into foster care. My father was unable to find a sturdy job. Which also affected his ability to find a suitable home. He worked as many odd jobs as he could find, mostly things like painting houses or apartments.
He owned a green station wagon at the time, which he lived out of while he was trying to make due. Once my father had gotten situated and had proven that he had a safe place for us to stay, social services called him and told him that he could come get me from the facility where I had been staying. (Apparently I wasn't well liked by any of my foster parents and was moved around quite a bit.)
My father has told me this story time and time again, I'm sure I wont be able to capture the frustration, and urgency as well as he does. But it's a worth the try. My father arrived at the facility and they told him that I wasn't ready yet that he would have to wait.My father said he could see me through the thick pained glass talking to social workers. Finally a woman came out to speak to my father. She told him that there had been a mistake and that he wouldn't be able to take me home that day. My father was livid. After the woman left he demanded to see me. They denied him, so he started pounding on the glass, and demanding to speak to somebody. My father was so upset, the glass started to shake and crack.
The woman finally brought me out to my father. Who then left in a hurry to get me home. He said he didn't want to hang around and risk them trying to take me away again. I was to young to remember any of this. But I do have some memories of the life we lived together after this, before he remarried. I remember some of the apartments we lived in, in El Cajon, and La Mesa. I vaguely remember his ex-wife Teresa, whom he was married to for a year. She was my mother for all intensive purposes during that time. She taught me my colors, potty trained me. She was a very kind women. Her mother Rose stayed my Grandma rose through out my life. Despite there separation when I was a little over three. Teresa had a heart attack and thirty-five and passed away.
I remember the pre school I went to across the street from one of our apartments. I mostly remember the good times, when things were easy. When it was just me and my dad. I know he had girlfriends that didn't work out. And I know that there were times when things were hard. When we had to sleep in his green station wagon, and lived off of forty two cent Tuesday Mc Donald's cheeseburgers. But my father was a good man, doing the very best he could do.
A few years back, before I was even born. When my father had been working as a cook for Marie Calendars, he met a women named Shelley Allen. They had stayed friends throughout the years. She even baby sat me for my father when he worked. When she found out that we were living out of my fathers car, she offered to put a roof over my head while my father found better work.
Eventually my father moved in as well, no funny business. They were just friends and Shelley was helping out a friend in need. Eventually though, things changed and they started dating. My father and I lived with them for a few years, and when I was eight years old they got married. My father has worked hard his entire life. Sacrificing his own time, money, health, and I suspect love to make sure I was happy. To provide me with the life that he never had. To make sure I never went with out.
To this day I still don't think I can grasp the full gravity of the sacrifices that he made for me. But now that I have a daughter, I like to think I can relate in some small way. I like to believe that if I were ever in his position I would make the same sacrifices for Madison. Some of which I already know I have. Because I love her more than anything in the world. I love her like my father loved me. His baby girl.
Forever and Always,
Hopeful Mother. Of. Madison.
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