We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it

My aunt shared a picture of my father, Big Pete, on Facebook recently.  I can't include it here, because to get permission to do so would open up a huge can of worms.

My father has Parkinsons with dementia.  I haven't spoken with him since 2009, when he turned 70.  Well, that's not exactly true; my aunt called me one day and put him on the phone, but I don't count that.  He didn't know who I was, and I hung up.  We haven't seen each other since...I don't know, to be honest.  I moved to South Carolina in 2006, so it was sometime before that.

We've been estranged for a long time, Big Pete and I.  It's difficult to explain.  We couldn't be who the other wanted, I think that sums it up.  I think we both wanted unconditional love, but were unable to give it to the other.

I told a friend a few years ago that we were estranged because "I was tired of beating my head against a brick wall...and Big Pete was tired of being the brick wall."

One thing Big Pete and I have in common is alcoholism.  I could blame that on him too, except he never once set me down and poured drinks down my throat.  My alcoholism is my alcoholism, and I'm dealing with it.

It's easy to blame Big Pete for everything else, though.  He really was a terrible father.  He wasn't violent, he wasn't abusive...he was just absent.  Even before the divorce, he was absent.  I wasn't on his radar.  I wasn't important.

*When I was in my mid-twenties, I was in Indianapolis visiting.  I stayed at his house.  It must have been before I married my first husband, because it was just us.  We were both drinking...and this was the only time Big Pete talked to me about his childhood.

His father, Grandpa Pete, had asked Grandma Ethel for a divorce around Thanksgiving.  Grandma had already been getting sick with what was later diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and this was the final tip she needed to sail into the abyss.  Grandma Ethel was committed to the State Mental Hospital in November of 1953.  Big Pete was 14, Lennie was 7 and Debbie was 3.

In December of the same year, just before Christmas, Grandpa Pete had to go into the hospital for surgery - as I understand it, he had an ulcer that perforated.  School was out, and Big Pete was in charge of the kids. Grandpa Pete's girlfriend checked in on them occasionally, but for the most part, it was Big Pete in charge of everything.  Grandpa Pete had not told my Grandma Ethel's family what was going on.

Big Pete told me that a neighbor lady asked him where the adults were.  She was concerned.  He told them that everything was okay - his parents were in the hospital but they'd be home soon.

He was worried about Christmas, though.  He knew that Santa Claus wasn't real, that it was really his parents.  How could he make Christmas for his brother and sister?

He told me that he woke up on Christmas Eve, and made breakfast...then cleaned the kitchen.

My imagination always fills this part in; I've seen pictures of my father when he was 14, wearing a plaid shirt with an earnest expression on his face.  I've also eaten his cooking.  I picture him soaking a pan in the sink with burnt oatmeal.  I picture him in a plaid shirt, earnestly sweeping the floor.

There was a knock on the door.  He opened it, and Aunt Teenie and Aunt Betty were at the door.  Aunt Virginia was coming up the walk with Gramma Hayes.

My grandfather died of complications of surgery on December 26, 1953.  When I was 35, and my maternal grandfather died, Big Pete reminisced about his father's funeral; Grandpa Pete's sisters came and looted the house, taking Grandpa Pete's coin collection and even the kids' toys.*

The part between the asterisks is all that Big Pete has told me (minus the part about my imagination).  The rest of the story I've gleaned from other relatives, or lived through.

The aunts and Gramma Hayes came on Christmas Eve and took them to Aunt Betty's house.  After the funeral, when they realized that they had to make permanent arrangements, Big Pete and Debbie stayed with Aunt Betty, while Lennie went to Aunt Virginia.

Unfortunately, Aunt Virginia's husband didn't want another little boy in their house...they already had a son, Russell.  So Lennie went to Gramma Hayes.  Debbie went to Aunt Virginia's house.

My parents married in 1960, and I was born in March 1961.  My brother, Pete, was born in 1964.  That was the same year that Gramma Ethel was discharged from the state mental hospital, and went to live with Aunt Teenie.

Debbie came to live with us in 1964 also.  This is how the story was given to me.

Mom took Debbie shopping for an Easter outfit.  If I recall the story correctly, it would have been Debbie's first "grownup" dress, her first stockings, her first "this is for you and you only" outfit.

When we picked her up for Easter Services, she was dressed as usual...not the outfit that Mom had helped her pick out.  Debbie told Mom and Big Pete that Aunt Virginia had decided that Debbie didn't need a new outfit and had returned it.

Debbie came to live with us.

How does this relate to "we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it"?

Truth is relative.  I've told my husband, Scott, about the times that Big Pete wasn't there for me.  But I haven't told him about that 14 year old boy who was sweeping the kitchen floor just before he found out that his family had completely fallen apart.  My husband doesn't understand how I can grieve for my father.

My father loved me the best he could.  I've loved him the best I could.  We have both failed, tried, struggled.  My father doesn't know me now.  I probably never knew him.  Because to me,he will always be that 14 year old boy in the plaid shirt, feeding his brother and sister burnt oatmeal, and then cleaning the kitchen.

I love you, Daddy.