My Father Bought Me Pretty Shoes

by

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I dreaded Father’s Day as a child. Every year (during those far less aware days) we were asked to make a card for our father as a classroom project. My father died when I was nine, so from that day forward I made cards for my grandfather, embarrassed by my lack.

I don’t know much about my father. He served in World War II. In  Africa. He was responsible for something to do with writing. In the photos he sent back to my mother he was often wearing a bathing suit and he typed messages on the back of them. As a fatherless child (who hadn’t yet uncovered any family secrets) I read the simple sentences on the back of those photographs as though they held the secrets of the universe; trying to know out who my father was through those eight or ten words. He compared the beaches of Africa to Coney Island. He wrote funny messages to my mother; in my mind, I pumped up those messages until they became sonnets.

Most of what I’ve written about my father has been unhappy snapshots based on memories I’ve inherited or been given. Once he tried to kill my mother. He drank to excess, and when he did, he became (according to my cousin who saw more than I did) quiet, sometimes angry, depressed or sullen. According to others, he took pills. Many of them and they were the cause of his death at 35.

I have heartbreakingly warm memories of my father, despite the family history. I don’t remember him high or drunk. When I cried, he told me to “stop the banana splits” and then bought me something special. (I don’t remember why I was crying. I know it was on a weekend I spent with him, my sister, and my grandparents. He and my mother were divorced.)

He played ragtime on the piano. He seemed to love me. He seemed sad. All the time.

After he died, no one ever mentioned him again. When I was old enough to be less afraid of upsetting my mother, I tried teasing bits information from her.

All she professed to remember was that she married him because he was handsome. And everyone was getting married. So I hold onto the love I feel for no reason I can truly remember, except that he once bought me pretty patent leather shoes with straps you could swing to the back.

When he fought in WW II he was so young—perhaps 21? He was handsome. He played the piano. He fought in World War II when he was barely in his twenties. And when I cried, he noticed.

 

 

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30 thoughts on “My Father Bought Me Pretty Shoes”

  1. Oh, Randy, what a lovely heartbreaking tribute. You hold onto the love from your father because in the way that children are wise, you remember the reality of it.
    I too had those shoes. I was fortunate that mine were given at a happier time.

  3. Randy,what beautiful memories to hold onto. My father was also a WWII vet–a quiet man who never talked about the war and was emotionally distant. I’ve always wondered what kind of man he was before he suffered an injury that left shrapnel in his head and caused horrific headaches at times. I, too, have memories though, of my father always being there when I needed him. Thanks for sharing your story and reminding me of my own.

  4. It’s wonderful that you can find a place in your heart to have a few simple things that give you “heartbreakingly warm memories.” It sounds as if your father suffered–not that it excuses him, but it does make one wonder “what if?” From what I’ve read, the North African campaign in WWII wasn’t a happy experience.

  6. Randy, I’m not sure how I stumbled on this post this morning, but I’m so glad I did. I think we all love in the best way we know how, or the only way we know how . . . despite the little time you spent with your father, and the little bit you could say about him, this post expressed love. And that’s the best there is.

  8. Lovely, Randy. Makes one wonder about that boy who came home from the war, and of course that little girl who loved him. And still does. . .

  9. My daughter’s father died when she was nine. It’s a complex thing that’s happening as she grows up, because now at 17, she’s not the little who lost her father, she’s a young woman who doesn’t much remember him. And soon she’ll be a young woman whose life was more without a father than with one. I do share good things with her, he was my ex, but even still. Father’s Day is a tough day around here — as I honor the memory of an ex-spouse for the sake of our children. Frankly, it sucks. I read somewhere — and I don’t know whom to quote — “It doesn’t matter who my father was, it only matter who I think he was.” For my children, I believe that. Thanks for sharing your story, Randy. xoxo

  10. Thank you for sharing such a moving and emotionally naked tribute. I think no matter when we lose our parents, after they’re gone we begin to realize there are things we don’t know – or don’t remember – about them. And that only makes us miss them more.

    I’m glad that despite the tragic circumstances of losing him so young, you hang on to some lovely and positive memories. He’d be proud to know that.

  11. So much wisdom–and compassion here, Randy. If I had written about my father when I was twenty or even forty, it would have been a different story than the one I would tell now. As Keith says, there’s so much we don’t know. We can hold on to the bad memories, the things that were or were not done, or we can forego judgment and choose love. Your beautiful and personal tribute speaks for many of us.

  14. Randy, as a previous commenter called it “a moving and emotionally naked tribute.” You leave a lot of white space in your tribute which leaves room for us readers to fill with our own associations.
    My father too was a soldier in WWII – albeit fighting for the enemy. I think of him as victim and perpetrator in one. The age old patriarchal tradition of turning the violence and trauma suffered into violence and trauma inflicted on others.
    I believe your holding on to your love for your father for no particular reason is a grand act of generosity, as it puts a bump in the road of passing on that pattern of violence for violence.

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  16. Time to end “war and stuff.” My father did aircraft maintenance in Orlando, Florida. I was born there in the Army Air Corps hospital, as was my (first) brother one year and eighteen days following. Growing as a little child is very hard. My parents, after they moved back to their North Carolina origins, had a third boy and then five girls (from 1950 to 1960). I still suffer from early childhood as I experienced, even though my father died in ’88 when my age was almost, but not quite, forty-four.

  17. I love this! It’s the truth. My father also drank too much and was only 22 when I was born right after the war. He was full of rage until just a few years before he died of liver disease. When I asked my mother why she married at age 17 – so young, and she was only 18 when I was born! – she also said everybody was getting married then, and she had had a crush on my dad since she was 12 because he was so good-looking. I guess that was enough back then. Your piece brought tears to my eyes, and I thank you.

  18. A beautifully written reminder that we connect with those we love for reasons we don’t always understand, but it doesn’t make the love any less valuable.

  19. Fathers are complex beings. I’m glad you have good memories of your dad. I hope he found peace.

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