Father's Day, and a Tribute to my Dad who didn't have to be

By Douglas V. Gibbs

They call it Father's Day, but sometimes I would just assume to call it "Dad's Day."  My father was not much of a father, but the dad was more than a father that my father could ever hope to be.  My mom divorced by father when I was still a baby, and she married who would become my dad a week before my third birthday.  My father had a lifestyle that was not best for my upbringing, so he vanished by the time I was twelve.  He disappeared from my life, only to return when I was a father, myself.  I had abandonment issues, but thank God that while that was all going on, I had a fantastic dad.

My step-dad, a title I never use because he's "Dad," fought in Vietnam in the United States Marine Corps.  Not long after his time in Vietnam his friend was dating a young hottie-tottie, my mom, so as a favor, Jerry babysat me when my mom was out on dates with his friend. I joke that if I hadn't been such a cool kid, they would never have fallen in love.  Perhaps, the opportunity to get to know me as a baby led to him wanting to get to know my mom better, later.  But, anyway, later, he and my mom fell in love, and he accepted the entire package, mother and son, as his own.

The Vietnam Veteran has always been "Dad." He never treated me any different than he would have if I had been his flesh and blood son. But, though he treated me as his son, he respected my father, conversing with the man when the elder picked me up once per year for his annual "here kid, I bought you a bunch of stuff."  Dad always encouraged me to keep my father's last name and stay connected with my family, of which I did.  My last name remains to be that of my blood-line heritage.

My dad led by example, and disciplined with a controlled hand and a loving heart. He worked hard to take care of the family, at one point working two jobs (one from 2:00 am to 6:00 am, then the other full-time during the day) and going to school at night. My biological father was fairly wealthy, coming from a family with money, but my dad never asked them for assistance, nor did he demand that my father pay the child support he never seemed willing to pay anyway.

Dad taught me to throw, to catch, and to swing a bat when I was nine years old. When I played baseball it was mom who was usually at the games, because Dad had to work, but he came to the games when he could.  My biological father showed up once so that he could be in a picture with me in my Mets uniform.

Dad treated me so much like his own flesh-and-blood-son that when we were together in public and around extended family, even people that knew he was my step-dad would forget, and say things like, "You apparently got that trait from your dad." Even Grandma, his own mother, made that mistake occasionally. Nobody ever said anything to challenge it. As far as everyone was concerned, he was my dad, and I was a part of the family.

When I became a father of my own family, I tried to model my actions after dad's, but as Brad Paisley's song goes, "I was just hoping I could be even half the dad he didn't have to be."

My biological father essentially rejected his grandchildren, telling me he didn't like kids. I don't blame him, he was not equipped for such a role due to his childhood, and his lifestyle. He grew up separated from his parents, in a boarding school, seeing his folks twice a year, during the Spring Break, and Christmas Break.  My dad, however, the man who was raised in a family of eight kids on a dairy farm in Arkansas, fell in love with my children, he is proud to be a grandfather, and proud to be a great-grandfather.

In 1985 I had a near-fatal automobile accident, and when Dad saw me lying in intensive care, my chest mechanically rising and falling under the support of a respirator, and my head flowing blood and spinal fluid through the left ear and dripping into a bedpan on the floor, the man who was strong, hardened by war, and unemotional when all else was falling apart around him, felt cold and clammy from the terror of seeing his son struggling for life. He went to a sink in a nearby bathroom and washed his tears away, praying for my survival. I wasn't his stepson, in his eyes, I was his "son," his precious son, fighting to survive.

He has hugged me when I needed a hug, and given me advice when I was up against the wall. He has done everything a Father is expected to do, and a little more, and he did it voluntarily - after all, being my step-dad, he didn't have to be a loving father if he didn't want to be.  He chose to be my dad.

I have always called him "Dad," and my biological parent "Father," so that I could maintain a distinction - but Dad is not only a dad. He is a Father, my Father, the Father he didn't have to be.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you with all of my heart. You have made me the man I have become, and I thank you for it.

And Happy Father's Day to my biological father who died in 1999, God Rest His Soul.

-- Political Pistachio Conservative News and Commentary