I read Nixon's blog and decided I would share this. I wrote it early this last Spring.
Note: this one's a little heavy, but it feels good to share it.
His name was Paul Emmet Smith.
My name is Matthew Paul Smith.
On the night of March 24, 1994 I walked out of the Good Samaritan nursing home and into the rain. I was having trouble breathing, but was so detached I barely noticed that I was sobbing again. I had just said goodbye to my father on his hospital bed. He had died just a few hours earlier. I found my car, fumbled my way inside, and smoked a cigarette. At some point later on, I realized that I was driving all around Spokane, my home town, revisiting the ghosts of us; some young, others a bit older. The night was going to be a long one, but it passed so quickly.
I started with all the old ghosts, except for one that I couldn't face. I went to the house on Houston Ave where I grew up. Parking up the street, I crept down the hill until I stood in front of that god-awful old California Split level. I remembered the anorexic Christmas Trees that used to adorn the large picture window. Mom loved Charlie Brown trees, and Dad, loving everything she did, would guide us through the mountains and forests until we found the most pathetic specimen of pine tree imaginable. Wed cut it down, drink hot carob (the most heinous chocolate substitute imaginable), strap the tree on top of the ol Datsun station wagon, and head home to dress it up.
I turned 360 degrees, taking in the old hood, thinking of all the hand-me-down bikes dad fixed up for me that I rode up and down that street. I thought of the families that used to live there and all the fights, tears, and triumphs I had with the those other kids. I thought of how dad used to take us trick-or-treating up and down the block until we were old enough to be left to our own devices. I remember the first time he pulled around the corner on his brand-spanking-new Honda 360 motorcycle. I thought of seeing dad trudging up the street, frustrated and desperate, unsuccessful at finding a job to keep his family in this house. We were very careful to stay away from him during this time. This memory took me to my next destination.
Heading all the way past the far side of town, I visited my uncles farm for the first time in years. I walked up to the old barn, past the machinery shed, and sat on the fence that surrounded the yard where I watched my dad on steering day when I was four years old. Dad was in law school, out of a job, and worked on my uncles farm to put food on the tableliterally. That day I watched my dad slowly become a bloody mess in order to feed me. The imagery was all too vivid years later, when in high school Psychology I learned all about Freuds castration complex. I also remember being surprised that Woody, the ol farm dog, didnt come out to challenge my presence at that time of night.
My next stop was Horseshoe Lake, where dad and I spent many a day fishing. It was really more of an oversized farm pond, but the trout were a little more accommodating to us than those in other places, so we kept coming back. When dad was dying, we made it out there a bit more frequently, at least until his health finally kept him from it for good. This place was something of a goldmine for us, because we had a looooong history of unsuccessful fishing trips during my childhood. If we were cavemen, Mom would have been very busy gathering roots and berries. Dad was an aspiring fly-fisherman you see, but every time he mentioned that he was going to go out, he was besieged by at least three small children who insisted on tagging along. What this meant was an endless cycle of helping one kid get a worm on a hook, unhooking a lure from another kid's nose, and then trying to find where the third wandered off to. Rinse and repeat. He rarely got a chance to even start wetting a fly before the cycle began anew, but he never complained. One time things got worse than detaching a hooked piece of metal from one of his kid's extremities. Next stop.
I dont recall actually driving there, but somehow I ended up at Deep Creekor was it Pine River Park? This is the place where I wandered off, and where sometime later my dad pulled me from the bottom of the river by my hair. By...my...hair. I remember that his glasses were on the whole time, and that I didnt get the spanking I thought for sure was imminent. Maybe it was because puking a gallon or two of river water was punishment enough. I think I was five or six.
Balboa Elementary field was next. I was playing little league baseball and couldnt believe that Dad made it to one of my games. By this point he was a deputy prosecuting attorney, and was frequently gone for at least 12 hours a day working on cases. Then again, that could have been the time he was having an affair. I hit the game-winning double. He said he was proud of me. I was eight.
Adolescence became the theme, and I ran out of places to go. Somehow, at some point, Dad sort of drifted away. The causes for that will be made clear in a minute, but Ill just now say that he had his share of disappointments in life, and I think that somewhere along the way he found it easier to withdraw rather than risk another one. For instance, when he was a young man he had been about to become a pilot in the Navy when he was hit by a drunk driver. He spent a few months in the hospital until he left with eyesight poor enough to be of no use to the Navy but just fine for the Marines. It was 1967. To avoid Viet Nam he enlisted in the Air Force insteadweapons testing.
He had a troubled wife. He had five children and a government employees salary. He had the ghosts of his own father to contend with. His teenaged children wereangry; rebellious; oblivious. His body was starting to betray him in strange ways.
My last stop was the Powerlines...where we had keggers back in the day. That's right. I said "keggers". At this stage I was pretty much "dependant" on those who seemed more like family to me that the ones connected to my birth certificate: Two Becky's, one Dale, one Ray, a slew of fool's in Aleman's class, and so on and so on. Time went on, and by the time I was a senior in high school the doctors thought Dad had Parkinsons Disease. A few years, and lots of the wrong treatment, later the docs realized they had it all wrong. Dad had something very similar to Lou Gehrig s disease. The cause was likely his exposure to radioactive boron during his Air Force days, but the government hasnt been cooperative. His motor control went to hell, his speech became slurred, and he was incontinent. He fell down a lot. He had to retire early. One day as he was out for a short stroll with the help of a walker, a bunch of high-school aged kids made fun of him for being a retard. They had no idea that this man recently put murderers and rapists behind bars.
I gave up on looking for ghosts and went home. It was probably 5 a.m.
Eventually, my mother decided she couldnt take care of him and Dad was put in the Good Samaritan nursing home. I visited him every week and during the next year I sort of became a confessor to him. He shared with me all the things he was proud of. He told me his regrets. He cried, and I tried to absolve him. I told him it was okay, and then wed go for a drive or maybe to get something to eat. He loved getting away from that place.
And then he died.
I remember kissing his forehead that night.
This next part is hard. Its been 15 years, during which the grief has progressed to reverence, and finally to acceptance; an acceptance that Paul Emmet Smith, for all the gifts he gave me, fucked up royally a few times. My father loved his family, he loved me, but he wasnt always perfect. He left a few apologies and regrets unaccounted for, namely the few episodes where, in outrage and despondence, he became violentwith me. It was only a few times, and never past age ten or so, but I think my talent for being present at pivotal moments put me directly in the path of a man who was out of his mind with rage, not with me, but with how his life had turned out.
The episodes were only a few, but needless to say the scars are still there and I havent been able to admit their existence until very recently, and even then only with the very few who are most precious to me: M. C. K. It's hard to share with you how full my heart is for these three women.
I accept the experiences now, the bad times, just as I accept that my father cannot be defined solely by his good deeds or his bad ones. I know he was burdened by the guilt. I know his father was brutal. I know that the reason he withdrew was largely because he did not want to repeat his crime against me or any of my siblings, nor our mother. I know that for all the times we sat together as he was dying, he wished he could have said Im sorry. I know this, and while I dont excuse him for what he did, I understand him now. Its this understanding that allows me to forgive him.
Its been fifteen years, but that night with the ghosts is one I wont forget. I am reliving it now, and am sure time and imagination have colored a few of the hazy bits, but the fundamental truths are all there. At the end of the day, I know that if I ever become a father I wont be Paul, but I hope I take a lot of the good things from him. He loved me. He sacrificed so much for me. He saved my fucking life. He tried to be accountable. He read stories to all his children nearly every night. He taught me many things, and for all of them I am grateful.
Rest well, Dad. I miss you.
Note: this one's a little heavy, but it feels good to share it.
His name was Paul Emmet Smith.
My name is Matthew Paul Smith.
On the night of March 24, 1994 I walked out of the Good Samaritan nursing home and into the rain. I was having trouble breathing, but was so detached I barely noticed that I was sobbing again. I had just said goodbye to my father on his hospital bed. He had died just a few hours earlier. I found my car, fumbled my way inside, and smoked a cigarette. At some point later on, I realized that I was driving all around Spokane, my home town, revisiting the ghosts of us; some young, others a bit older. The night was going to be a long one, but it passed so quickly.
I started with all the old ghosts, except for one that I couldn't face. I went to the house on Houston Ave where I grew up. Parking up the street, I crept down the hill until I stood in front of that god-awful old California Split level. I remembered the anorexic Christmas Trees that used to adorn the large picture window. Mom loved Charlie Brown trees, and Dad, loving everything she did, would guide us through the mountains and forests until we found the most pathetic specimen of pine tree imaginable. Wed cut it down, drink hot carob (the most heinous chocolate substitute imaginable), strap the tree on top of the ol Datsun station wagon, and head home to dress it up.
I turned 360 degrees, taking in the old hood, thinking of all the hand-me-down bikes dad fixed up for me that I rode up and down that street. I thought of the families that used to live there and all the fights, tears, and triumphs I had with the those other kids. I thought of how dad used to take us trick-or-treating up and down the block until we were old enough to be left to our own devices. I remember the first time he pulled around the corner on his brand-spanking-new Honda 360 motorcycle. I thought of seeing dad trudging up the street, frustrated and desperate, unsuccessful at finding a job to keep his family in this house. We were very careful to stay away from him during this time. This memory took me to my next destination.
Heading all the way past the far side of town, I visited my uncles farm for the first time in years. I walked up to the old barn, past the machinery shed, and sat on the fence that surrounded the yard where I watched my dad on steering day when I was four years old. Dad was in law school, out of a job, and worked on my uncles farm to put food on the tableliterally. That day I watched my dad slowly become a bloody mess in order to feed me. The imagery was all too vivid years later, when in high school Psychology I learned all about Freuds castration complex. I also remember being surprised that Woody, the ol farm dog, didnt come out to challenge my presence at that time of night.
My next stop was Horseshoe Lake, where dad and I spent many a day fishing. It was really more of an oversized farm pond, but the trout were a little more accommodating to us than those in other places, so we kept coming back. When dad was dying, we made it out there a bit more frequently, at least until his health finally kept him from it for good. This place was something of a goldmine for us, because we had a looooong history of unsuccessful fishing trips during my childhood. If we were cavemen, Mom would have been very busy gathering roots and berries. Dad was an aspiring fly-fisherman you see, but every time he mentioned that he was going to go out, he was besieged by at least three small children who insisted on tagging along. What this meant was an endless cycle of helping one kid get a worm on a hook, unhooking a lure from another kid's nose, and then trying to find where the third wandered off to. Rinse and repeat. He rarely got a chance to even start wetting a fly before the cycle began anew, but he never complained. One time things got worse than detaching a hooked piece of metal from one of his kid's extremities. Next stop.
I dont recall actually driving there, but somehow I ended up at Deep Creekor was it Pine River Park? This is the place where I wandered off, and where sometime later my dad pulled me from the bottom of the river by my hair. By...my...hair. I remember that his glasses were on the whole time, and that I didnt get the spanking I thought for sure was imminent. Maybe it was because puking a gallon or two of river water was punishment enough. I think I was five or six.
Balboa Elementary field was next. I was playing little league baseball and couldnt believe that Dad made it to one of my games. By this point he was a deputy prosecuting attorney, and was frequently gone for at least 12 hours a day working on cases. Then again, that could have been the time he was having an affair. I hit the game-winning double. He said he was proud of me. I was eight.
Adolescence became the theme, and I ran out of places to go. Somehow, at some point, Dad sort of drifted away. The causes for that will be made clear in a minute, but Ill just now say that he had his share of disappointments in life, and I think that somewhere along the way he found it easier to withdraw rather than risk another one. For instance, when he was a young man he had been about to become a pilot in the Navy when he was hit by a drunk driver. He spent a few months in the hospital until he left with eyesight poor enough to be of no use to the Navy but just fine for the Marines. It was 1967. To avoid Viet Nam he enlisted in the Air Force insteadweapons testing.
He had a troubled wife. He had five children and a government employees salary. He had the ghosts of his own father to contend with. His teenaged children wereangry; rebellious; oblivious. His body was starting to betray him in strange ways.
My last stop was the Powerlines...where we had keggers back in the day. That's right. I said "keggers". At this stage I was pretty much "dependant" on those who seemed more like family to me that the ones connected to my birth certificate: Two Becky's, one Dale, one Ray, a slew of fool's in Aleman's class, and so on and so on. Time went on, and by the time I was a senior in high school the doctors thought Dad had Parkinsons Disease. A few years, and lots of the wrong treatment, later the docs realized they had it all wrong. Dad had something very similar to Lou Gehrig s disease. The cause was likely his exposure to radioactive boron during his Air Force days, but the government hasnt been cooperative. His motor control went to hell, his speech became slurred, and he was incontinent. He fell down a lot. He had to retire early. One day as he was out for a short stroll with the help of a walker, a bunch of high-school aged kids made fun of him for being a retard. They had no idea that this man recently put murderers and rapists behind bars.
I gave up on looking for ghosts and went home. It was probably 5 a.m.
Eventually, my mother decided she couldnt take care of him and Dad was put in the Good Samaritan nursing home. I visited him every week and during the next year I sort of became a confessor to him. He shared with me all the things he was proud of. He told me his regrets. He cried, and I tried to absolve him. I told him it was okay, and then wed go for a drive or maybe to get something to eat. He loved getting away from that place.
And then he died.
I remember kissing his forehead that night.
This next part is hard. Its been 15 years, during which the grief has progressed to reverence, and finally to acceptance; an acceptance that Paul Emmet Smith, for all the gifts he gave me, fucked up royally a few times. My father loved his family, he loved me, but he wasnt always perfect. He left a few apologies and regrets unaccounted for, namely the few episodes where, in outrage and despondence, he became violentwith me. It was only a few times, and never past age ten or so, but I think my talent for being present at pivotal moments put me directly in the path of a man who was out of his mind with rage, not with me, but with how his life had turned out.
The episodes were only a few, but needless to say the scars are still there and I havent been able to admit their existence until very recently, and even then only with the very few who are most precious to me: M. C. K. It's hard to share with you how full my heart is for these three women.
I accept the experiences now, the bad times, just as I accept that my father cannot be defined solely by his good deeds or his bad ones. I know he was burdened by the guilt. I know his father was brutal. I know that the reason he withdrew was largely because he did not want to repeat his crime against me or any of my siblings, nor our mother. I know that for all the times we sat together as he was dying, he wished he could have said Im sorry. I know this, and while I dont excuse him for what he did, I understand him now. Its this understanding that allows me to forgive him.
Its been fifteen years, but that night with the ghosts is one I wont forget. I am reliving it now, and am sure time and imagination have colored a few of the hazy bits, but the fundamental truths are all there. At the end of the day, I know that if I ever become a father I wont be Paul, but I hope I take a lot of the good things from him. He loved me. He sacrificed so much for me. He saved my fucking life. He tried to be accountable. He read stories to all his children nearly every night. He taught me many things, and for all of them I am grateful.
Rest well, Dad. I miss you.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
and NO...lol I don't do CrossFit. I SHOULD!!!
I have been at the gym twice this week after a year off...things are squishy my friend, squishy!!!