Dad -Part 1

It has been so good being with my boys. We have spent a lot of time together, covered a lot of miles. 1400 so far.

Every once in a while one of the boys will say:

“I’m having a lot of fun!”

That surprises me. Most of the time they seem pretty bored, barely noticing the passing scenery as we roll through so much country.

I think that what they are enjoying about this trip is me. They are asking questions. nothing of great import really, just spending a lot of time being together.

Isaac asked about electricity and soon I had gotten him to some kind of understanding the relationship between ions, electron shells, Ionic bonds, and light.

Nothing of great import really.

What was important was that we were three guys, a father and two sons, learning to love each other. Learning who we are together.

I’m in my sister’s kitchen in Fallbrook this morning. Yesterday we were at El Mirage dry lake bed in the Mojave Desert. The day before we were in Orange County, the boys playing pool or video games; I lent a hand in getting the place ready for dad and getting a haircut. I had the stylist run her shears over my beard as well.


In the afternoon we went to the airport, John Wayne International.

Wende went to park the car while I walked luggage carousels as John Wayne strode across a larger than life Orange County.


Dad seemed old.

We hugged, drove back to Huntington Beach. He went to Wende’s to parcel out gifts from Southeast Asia. I put his luggage in his room next door.

My sons and I got silk pajamas.


Wende got a brass bell.

We sat in the yard drinking beers and he told stories of Thailand.


I watched the face, so similar to my own (well, a couple of decades older), and wondered who he is.

It really wasn’t complicated.

He is still the guy I’ve always known... and he’s someone I don’t really know at all.

He seems gentler. More relaxed.

He wears a beaded necklace, he burns incense on a little altar in his bedroom, and he is freer with hugs, even an occasional kiss.

Within my head, within my heart, I whispered quiet prayers set aside my prejudices.

I suspended judgment about prostitution, and hedonism, and wasted resources. I simply enjoyed him as he was, listened to what he thought was important to talk about.

He spoke a lot about his girlfriend, Puy. She sounds sweet... a widow who makes terrible coffee and ruins the food by dropping a raw egg on it just before it is served (he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by being critical).

He talked about the house he shares with her in Chaiya Phum on the mainland, and the bungalow he has on Ko Samui, and island in the south.

He spoke of how his previous girlfriend, Apple, is elbowing him out of control of the bar he bought (it’s in her name, farangs, non-Thais, aren’t permitted to own property or businesses).

He talked about the twenty or so girls who work in the bar.

“When a man comes into the bar, it doesn’t matter if he’s 18 or 80, if he’s good looking or has acne, it don’t matter if he has one arm or anything, every girl there treats them all the same. They’re Buddhists and all they see is another soul.”

Something about the way he said that told me he was deeply moved by their lack of judging.

He talked quite a bit about a funeral on Ko Sumai last week, a Buddhist ritual of cremation and all day chanting. He talked about helping the villagers keep the fired stoked all day, of the music and drums and prayers.

He spoke a lot about prostitution. The differences between Singapore girls and how things work in Bangkok, and Japan, and Thailand. He said that in his bar if a man likes a girl, he pays the bar 100 baht (about $5) and she will go with him for as long as he likes. He can then pay her (or not) whatever he wishes.

Part of me pulled away from this talk.

Another part of me gentled toward him.

I suspended my judgment, and simply listened.

I found that I really love him.

I didn’t need to share my faith with him. He understands all of that. He is fully aware of the tenets of my faith.

He resents the proselytizing others have inflicted on him. He resents the judging Christians inflict on him, on those he knows, on other cultures.

He talked about his travels in asia and about his run for a record the next day.

I didn’t say much.

I didn’t tell him about my views on politics or life or faith. I didn’t really tell him much of anything. I just listened.

I didn’t need to say much to him. He knows I go to church every sunday, and therefore my faith is important to me. He knows I care about others, by the actions of my life, in adopting these boys, in lending a hand when needed.

I didn’t need to say much.

I just listened.

And I found something wonderful.

I found I love my dad.

His life, his sins, his triumphs and successes and failures are his own.

He is a soul made in the image of the Lord I love, and I find I love him deeply.

It isn’t for me to convince him of the errors of his ways or to educate him in my faith or shoe horn him into a paradigm that is closer to my own.

I saw how he felt humbled by the sincerity of those in Thailand, those with simple lives, simple needs. I saw how he sees himself, self important, and with no importance at all.

I saw him as a fellow traveler in this world who doesn’t need anything from me, but softens when I give him a hug, kiss his cheek.

He says he would love to fly me to Thailand and show me around. He said he knows I wouldn’t be interested in a lot of the things he is interested in, but I would love a lot of other things there. I know he meant that I wouldn’t be interested in the bar or the prostitutes, but that I would love the culture, the beaches and jungles, the food and people.

And in saying that I knew he understood who I am, what I believe in, and that he accepted me for who I am.

I was noncommittal about a trip to Asia, but I let him know I was very grateful for the offer...

“Maybe next year, Dad.”

My dad loves to cuss, and sleep around, and have manly adventures... but he is a soul which has its own kindness, its own approach...


I felt I understood how Jesus approached people who sinned a lot, were shunned by society... He simply loved them.

It feels good to do that.

(next post, a trip to the desert...)

Preparations

Dad arrives from Thailand in a few hours and folks are getting ready.

There are two maids cleaning his house...


...and Jesse (a laborer for the company who lives in Wende’s house) has been hosing down the drives, washing vehicles, and scooping up dog poop (they have six dogs and three cats).


There is another employee from the company who is loading up coolers and such for the trip to the desert for Dad’s attempt at some world record.


Wende has been running animals to and from groomers and such so they are all well-trimmed and clean.

There was a crew here yesterday to trim up trees (they removed one entirely, even grinding out the stump and placing fresh sod in its place).

(The Large tree by the house was removed)

She asked me to make a grocery run to restock my dad’s cupboards, and refrigerator. He now has his bananas, lunch meats, and other essentials. I insisted she take her change (it was almost $150).

My nephew spent the night here last night. He slept on the couch to be near Gramma Wende, though he has a bedroom next door.


I figured he would be spoiled from all the attention and goodies he has, but he seems to be a serious, polite, grounded and goodhearted 6th grader.

(Lord, help me to not be a judge of others, to simply love and encourage.)

All these preparations makes me uneasy somehow.

I’m anxious to get past all of this.

You know, I was born in this county. When I was a kid, it was a rural place of orange groves and bean fields and country roads. I'd ride my bike up to ten miles away. Now it is a place where cities are divided by major streets which are filled with well-kept vehicles filled with urbanites with well-kept appearances.

I can’t seem to get away from the judging thing, can I? Even in attempting to chronicle this road trip my word choice betrays my bias.

My brother David says he is thinking about moving to Oregon. He could see something in my attitude toward this place that made him admit that it has become a place of superficiality. He said something about what it was like here when we were kids and wondered why he was still here.

“Frog in a pot,” was all I said.

He winced and grinned.

The guy is here to reinstall the rugs that were removed and steamed yesterday, and power wash the drives.

All this bustle.

I have found over the past few years it is hard to get close to my dad to simply talk. He seems to suspect ulterior motives for people’s affections. But I hope to have a chance to get to know him a bit.

I wish I was going to church tomorrow.

It would be good to shut my eyes, lift my hands, and breathe in deeply the words of worship songs and let my own heart add to the praise of my church family.

Isaac just sat down and asked what I’m writing about.

“I’m just writing about what is going on here and that I wish I could be in church tomorrow.”

“So do I!” He gave me a hug and went off to play with the Sony PSP Doug helped him buy yesterday.

The boys had so much fun yesterday.

(on the mall's connecting bridge, it's seen in the next pic beneath the "G" marker)

They were amazed at the huge mall, South Coast Plaza.

(from the freeway north to the top of the pick)

Jeremiah was so thrilled to make such a large purchase on his own.

Can you handle 8 gigs of music?!!

Back to my post:

For me church is important business.

For me it is a time and place for my heart to settle, to feel good things, things I know come from my Lord, to work a little bit more at exercising my soul a little so I may more easily keep up with the pace my shepherd sets for me.

I would do well to exercise my physical body more. I should lose at least 15% of my weight.

Brenda tells me her exercising makes her feel good, it keeps her in shape and brings her enjoyment.

I suppose my worship at church does something similar. It builds up my spiritual muscles, makes me feel good.

I suppose it is a preparation for my eternal life... or, seen another way... preparation for my Lord’s return.

I wonder if my dad has been making such preparations?

Here are all these people bustling about, making preparations for my father’s return... do they make any preparations for my Father’s return?

Who's My Father?

My relationship with my father is simple and complex.

It's simple because I really don't know him very well and so we tend to run our interactions along lines we are used to... not a lot of depth.

It's complex because we are both people with strong views, active minds, complex perspectives.

It's Friday morning, Jeremiah and I have showered, Isaac is doing so, and I will then do the laundry. We are spending the day with a long time friend of mine who has done very well in welding supplies. He set a $1000 aside to show us a good time. I thought the boys would want to do Disneyland or Universal Studios or some such, but they want to go to the mall and then watch TV on Doug's 40" LCD with the theater surround sound and massage chairs.

So, in this moment of waiting for the dirty clothes to be gathered I am thinking about my dad, and pecking at this keyboard, transfering these thoughts onto this online journal.

He is flying in tomorrow afternoon from Thailand. Early the following morning, during a time I usually spend with my church family, we will be setting up to watch him attempt a world record on a "motorcycle." I don't know the details of the motorcycle, except that it is nitro-fueled, has approximately 400 horsepower, is very low to the ground, and is very expensive.

Whatever.

I'm more interested in my dad. Where is he spiritually?

This house we have been staying in, the one dad stays in (while he is briefly inn the U.S.) because it is more convenient than living with his wife, the one that used to be my sister's, doesn't feeling like a home. It is simply a house.

There are clues here to what my father thinks is important. Everywhere I look I see pictures of my sister, some walls have seven or eight pictures of her. There are also a lot of pictures of my dad, sitting on motorcycles in the desert, posing with groups of strangers in different parts of the world, holding trophies.

When I remember him from my childhood I feel anxious, a little fearful. He was a frightening figure, dominating. Looking around this house I see hints that he has other sides to him.

The little figurine on his night stand hints at the tender side he might have toward children...


That is nice to see.

Jeremiah just came in to take a picture of me. I paused, let him take several until he got it right... Here is the one that finally came out...


There are other indicators of where my dad is at lately...


In his bedroom I see...

Objects on the dressers...

Someone told me that he claims to be a Buddhist... The little bowl of offered rice in front of the picture of my sister, the incense and candles... I suppose he might be.


I have mixed feelings about that.

But I am glad to see that he may be thinking about things beyond the world he has built for himself.

I know that when I was a kid he did go to that church on the corner with us, that he seemed to have a faith in a risen Christ.

Perhaps... Maybe... I don't know.

There is a little figurine of a man kneeling before a cross on his dresser...


I've never been able to tell my dad much. And the things I would have to say about faith which might lead him to a closer relationship with my Lord are things he already knows (he once told me about a trucker friend of his who was always trying to get him to go to a biker's church).

I may not be able to tell him much, but perhaps I can show him a little.

I can show him how I feel about him. I can show him my relationship with my boys. I can show him my relationship with God...

And in the few hours between his arrival from Thailand, and his departure at the lasered starting line in the Mojave Desert, I can show him the primary commands of my Lord: love God, love others.

So... the boys have finished their showers, they are sitting beside me starting their breakfast of cold cereal (typical guy approach to feeding ourselves, right?), and I need to get the laundry started.

We are off to some huge mall and then to do the couch potato thing at my friend's.

I am looking forward to getting away from the crowds and pavement... from the aggressive drivers, and the freeways which turn into glaciers of metal and plastic at 4:00 each afternoon, ribbons of hate coursing through the city.

I am looking forward to open spaces and natural beauty and solitude. I think that once we get clear of Southern California I will find a place where I can spend an hour or so with God.

And in that place on the far side of my dad's strange journey to find fame in the desert, I can draw a little nearer to the father who offers me a relationship that is simple... a relationship that has only the complications in it that I bring.

Update

It’s Wednesday night and I’m watching TV in my dad’s room.

Wende, dad’s fifth wife, took us out to dinner, along with two employees of the company. Her boyfriend, Jesse, stayed at home, he wasn’t feeling real well.

Nice guy. He helped me wash and wax my van after the 1,000 mile drive from Oregon. Apparently his job is to putter around the two houses, doing yard work, washing cars, and doing fill in labor on job sites.

Dad's Place

Wende's

I saw one of my brothers. In fact, he was the one who provided the easy application wax we used on my van. He seems happy to be working for my dad’s business manager. I still can’t over his loss of hair (whew! I guess I dodged that genetic bullet!).

David

Dad comes from Thailand on Saturday afternoon. I’ll go with with Wende to the airport to pick him up. He is still planning on that motorcycle run on Sunday.

Dad’s business manager is out of town, in Hawaii, so I probably won’t see him.

I’m unsure of the interpersonal dynamics around here, but I’ll figure it out. From what I understand, this house that once was my sister’s (she hung herself four years ago) is empty most of the time. Dad spends almost all of his time in Thailand. He has a bar and a bungalow there.

On our way out to dinner we spent at least fifteen minutes trying to round up one of the dogs (they have six). This one, ‘Quila, was my dad’s girlfriend’s dog. When he and she broke up he kept the dog and now it is Wende’s. It’s ornery, likes to play keep away and avoid getting locked in the fenced yards.

'Quila in the Wall

Everyone is real glad to see me and my boys.

Everyone is real happy to laugh and talk about good times.

And everyone is living a life that confuses me no end.

They have begun apologizing for their frequent swearing, but I tell them it isn’t a big deal, though they see how uncomfortable in makes Jeremiah and Isaac.

There is a lot of nice stuff here. Dad’s main house (or is it Wende’s?) has six our so bedrooms and the office. This house, next door, has four bedrooms, and the only primary residents here are the six dogs who have a door through the adjoining property line wall, and an orange and white cat who keeps nibbling at my toes as I type.

Tomorrow morning, Thursday, I’m taking the boys to Corona Del Mar for a swim in the ocean. They are suspicious as it isn’t the sort of thing one does in Oregon, but I tell them that the water here is warm enough that it will be a lot of fun.

So... how will I tie this in to some personal epiphany? Some theology insight or ccomment on human nature?

I can’t.

I love my family. I don’t undestand the situation here very well (and there are hints of things that I am waiting to learn more about before I go into more detail), but that is OK.

Right now, loving my family is enough.

It’s late, I’m tired, and this lonely cat is attacking my foot.

I’m going to bed.

Thursday Morn...

Just got back from taking the boyus to Corona Del Mar. We looked at tide pools...


...but the boys seemed more fascinated by the emergency people who rescued someone from the surf and rocks.


There was a steady stream of joggers, runners and dog walkers along the bluffs over looking the ocean and the air was sweet and fresh coming in over the Pacific.

We went to Laguna Beach, I sent Brenda a post card and the boys bought mood rings.


It is so busy here. The drivers are very aggressive, and having nice cars seems to be the norm. At least along the coast.

The hills along the stretch between Corona Del Mar and Laguna beach are mostly covered with track homes now, with large wide streets coursing through areas I remember as only scrub brush.

I’ve only been here less than a day and I am already longing to get on out to see some country.

I’m meeting up with a jr. high school friend this afternoon and tomorrow he is treating the boys and I to whatever we wish to do.

I’m glad I don’t live here any more.

Perspectives

We are roaming.

I don’t mean that my cell phone is out of its normal area and we are getting roaming charges. Actually, the cell phone we bought for this trip stopped working just three hours from home.

No, we are really roaming. My sons and I are on a road trip. The little woman (and I mean little, she has been running and she is getting skinny!) is staying behind.


Rocky wanted to come, but we left him behind also. Which is making this trip a lot more pleasant. He is pretty demanding of attention and things are a lot more relaxed.


I stopped in a little town in northern California, a place where I have a lot of memories.

I was in kindergarten when we moved to 137 Plumas St., Willows, California. The kindergarten is gone and a public pool is in its place.

But the house is still there, looking as if it hasn’t been painted in the intervening 45 years.


I’m not sure why my dad moved there. It was 500 miles from where he had lived most of his life. It may say something about being young and wanting freedom, after all, I doubled that distance when I moved to Oregon.

I know he drove truck for Baker Trucking. I remember going with him to the grain silos and the smell of rice and wheat and grease and sweat.


At any rate... I stopped in Willows, yesterday.

I checked out Murdock Elementary School, which turns out to be only a mile from where I lived (in my memory it seemed to have been at least two miles that I walked to my first grade class room where I learned the mysteries of such things as the word “orange” is much harder to spell than the word “red”, and that the letters “i” and “j” may look alike, but have very different symbolic lives).


I got a bicycle when I was in first grade. A shiny red one. I pointed out to Isaac where the bike rack was, and there is still one there, with another red bike parked there as well.


I told Isaac how a police car followed me from school one day. He finally stopped me, and explained I was riding home on a bike that wasn’t mine. It looked just like mine, but it belonged to another boy. He put the bike in his trunk and we went to the police station. He said I had been taking the wrong bike all week and they had waited for me that day to correct the situation. My bike was in the station.

I told Isaac how I had swallowed a tooth while eating a peanut butter sandwich there. How my mom told me I could leave a note for the tooth fairy and how I got a reply. The reply included the answer to my question about what the tooth fairy did with the teeth (she turns them into billard balls).

The house I had lived in is smaller than I remember. The juniper trees have been cut down, as well as the oak tree in the back yard. The lawn hasn’t been watered in a very long time, and the walnut tree with the swing in the backyard is gone.


The house across the street that I thought was haunted had been replaced with apartments, and the church where I say jesus smile at me through a stain glass window has been replaced with a new church building. I had hoped the steeple with the bell was still there, but it isn’t.

Strange that I am so drawn to this place. I suppose it was the most stable years of my childhood, that house where my parents’ marriage fell apart.

I had forgotten the intriguing craftsmanship evidenced in the banisters and entries inside.


Looking up at the high roof I can see why my dad gave us such a licking for climbing up there to throw balsa gliders.


The old garage is there and so is the apricot tree we climbed so we could dare each other to touch the power line for a hugely exciting shock.

It was at this house that my faith took root. I was only five years old when I had a series of experiences which formed my character.

I had closed my eyes and tried to walk through the fence at the kindergarten, and come to the conclusion that I hadn’t enough faith.

I had rung that bell in that steeple on the corner to create a ringing voice to call people from across our town to services.

It was there that I knew the meaning of the communion I was not allowed to share, knowing for the first time that my mother did not know all that I thought she must know. That there were truths inside of me that others didn’t know.

It was there that I had my own scientific epiphanies. It was on a walk to Murdock Elementary that I realized that the shifting perspectives of a picket fence and the house behind it were the same thing as the trees flying past a distant moon as my father drove a country road. I realized at that moment the approximate distance of the moon, one that years later I found was not very far off.


I thought I’d feel warm and tied back to the memories of a very good time in my life (aside from the vivid memories of paternal punishments).

But I didn't.

After walking around that house with the “sale pending” sign in the yard I felt melancholy.

Just as the building itself is smaller in the reality of my perceptions today, the experiences seem to have shrunk as well. I see the places where I had raced around the neighborhood on that red bike and the magic of it is all dusty and nearly forgotten.

Perhaps the magic that was there was simply the magic that can be found in the heart of a six year old who believes in God and that the world is good, even though his father is cheating on his mother and the branches of the persimmon tree were used for spankings for childhood infractions.

The melancholy I feel is about the change of perspective. Just as the pickets of the fence changed their relative position in front of the house, and the trees moved across the yellow light of the moon, the paths of a six year old look very different from the distance of 45 years.

How will all this life appear from the perspective of eternity? Will I look at the worries of raising my children with nostalgia when I see them from the distance of immortality?

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Side note: I will continue posting as I have opportunities on this trip. It isn’t often I have such free time to reflect on things. So, leave a note you were here... it’s reassuring to have the voices of my blogging friends while I am so far from home. God bless!