Portrait of Eddie’s…no, Jennifer’s Father!
It may not come as a shock to you, but I was not raised by Mike Brady. Come to think of it, my father wasn’t even Robert Reed. My father is a curious mix of artist, musician and mad scientist with a singular focus and zero filter. Those who love him-aside from his dogs-do so by ignoring about 80% of what comes out of his mouth and appreciate him for the good hearted person he is.
That has not been easy for me over the years. After decades of a cold marriage, my parents divorced when I was 12 and set in motion a tense, distant and often illogical relationship between my father and I that wasn’t remedied until the turn of the millennia. Since then, we have been trying to make up for lost time and making the best of the time we have left. I speak mostly to his wife (otherwise known as a SAINT!) who relays the points he would find most interesting in between cups of coffee and basketball games. He gives me little bits of advice-like when I announced my hiring at a major governmental agency his reply was, ‘Whatever you do, don’t do anything stupid.’ He tells me all sorts of basketball stats of which I have absolutely no interest. But when he’s not looking, he lets me peek behind the curtain at the man he truly is.
My father was the youngest of probably four children born into a German family-even though his last name has French origins. That revelation put a smile on my face as my father is likely to reject body organs if the news were to ever reach him. A man with an opinion about just about everything, I always found it curious that he also abhors confrontation and will run from it any chance he gets. He was a band teacher, an electrician and an insurance salesman but never identified with any of these professions except as a means to acquire a salary. He has no use for children but was also the first to teach Evan to soldier and Erin to play the flute. And although he was a horribly inattentive father, he pulled himself out of bed after working the midnight shift for years to go to my baton twirling contests and concerts and also the first to buy my first published book-a horrible text that to this day, he avoids mentioning.
The thing is, my dad taught me to stand by your children and be there even if it was the last thing you felt like doing. He taught me to feign interest in the most boring topics. He taught me to shake off social faux pas with a smile. He taught me to appreciate the unique and interesting, to pursue my passions headfirst and pay no attention to the ignorant opinions of others. Unless you are a recognized expert in a field of his immediate interest, he doesn’t give a damn about what you think-believe me! And he taught me to be myself and let everyone else figure out how to cope with that.
I joke about my long-term care plan for my father involves a microwave, mini fridge and a garden shed in my backyard. And to his credit, he shrugs it off. He is too busy thinking of his next project or experiment. But it might also be because he knows that I have a long term plan for him that doesn’t involve dropping him off at the nearest nursing home.
In a way, it’s probably a comfort to him not to have to be social. He doesn’t have to. He’s my dad and I’m with him for the long haul.
So happy Father’s Day-you grumpy, old goat!
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and daughter.
