One Father's Day, when I was 9, my Dad asked me to hop in the car.
We drove to an elementary school. It was Sunday at 11 am. Inside the gym, cigarette smoke filled the air as three dozen adults milled about.
Confused, he told me to sit.
We drove to an elementary school. It was Sunday at 11 am. Inside the gym, cigarette smoke filled the air as three dozen adults milled about.
Confused, he told me to sit.
He then walked to the front. He was the only one up there.
Were they here to listen to my Dad?
Was this his meeting?
My Dad went to a lot of meetings. That is what I thought work was.
He asked for quiet and began to speak.
Were they here to listen to my Dad?
Was this his meeting?
My Dad went to a lot of meetings. That is what I thought work was.
He asked for quiet and began to speak.
"My name is Dave, and I'm an alcoholic."
What!?!?
Stunned, I learned about a life I didn't know.
Of cases of beer that disappeared and days that did the same.
Of a war we didn't speak of and the birth certificate he forged to join it.
Of parents who showed love with fists.
What!?!?
Stunned, I learned about a life I didn't know.
Of cases of beer that disappeared and days that did the same.
Of a war we didn't speak of and the birth certificate he forged to join it.
Of parents who showed love with fists.
When it ended, I watched something else.
A parade. It seemed like each person had to greet my Dad.
He was a celebrity.
I'd learn that in these circles, 10 years sober was quite a miracle.
And miracles inspire.
Sharing was his gift to them. And a burden he gladly wore.
A parade. It seemed like each person had to greet my Dad.
He was a celebrity.
I'd learn that in these circles, 10 years sober was quite a miracle.
And miracles inspire.
Sharing was his gift to them. And a burden he gladly wore.
But that Father's Day, he gave me a gift.
A gift he had started to wrap a decade earlier.
He was determined that I would not grow up as he had. That my normal would be a safe and sober normal. That his duty as a parent was to be better.
His gift to me was a broken chain.
A gift he had started to wrap a decade earlier.
He was determined that I would not grow up as he had. That my normal would be a safe and sober normal. That his duty as a parent was to be better.
His gift to me was a broken chain.
My Dad passed a few years ago.
While he asked for a quiet send-off, 100s of strangers disagreed.
For hours, they shared stories of timely visits, encouraging words, or the occasional kick-in-the-ass.
Many shared a line I heard repeatedly:
Choose your tomorrow but start today.
While he asked for a quiet send-off, 100s of strangers disagreed.
For hours, they shared stories of timely visits, encouraging words, or the occasional kick-in-the-ass.
Many shared a line I heard repeatedly:
Choose your tomorrow but start today.
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