Why is Thad Glad?

This is my first Father’s Day without a father.  My dad, Gary Smith, died of heart failure at 78 in July 2018.   I last saw him in April 2018 in a Portland hospital.  The last touch we had was part of a reluctant good-bye was when I kissed him on his forehead after telling him that I loved him and wishing him luck for his surgery the next day.   My weakened father was lying innocently in his hospital bed.  He needed rest because he was soon to have his chest cracked open so doctors could connect a device to his heart that we hoped would extend the length and quality of his life.   He was in no position to resist my little sneak attack.   Why did I do it? Well, the easy answer is that I was not sure if he would survive his surgery or if I would see him ever again.  The harder answer is that I wanted to clear some regret because I had not kissed my dad in more than forty years.

I came of age in the 1970’s and 1980’s as a white male living in a white Catholic and Protestant community in New Jersey that adhered to traditional gender roles.   I cannot recall any overt bigotry from my parents and think they raised me to be a tolerant.  I also think they were mostly successful.  In such a homogeneous community, it’s hard to imagine situations that would trigger actual bigotry.  We just did not encounter many different people.   As it relates to the expression of social acceptance through speech, we were living in the dark ages in comparison to today (Seriously, I cannot even begin to tell you how many Polish jokes we told back then –  If you say Polish jokes are bigoted, I plead guilty in 2019). I say this not in a lets-make-America-great-again-and-return-to-the-good-old-days way or as criticism of politically correct speech standards.  I mention it with the hope that you will charitably view my next comment through a 1970’s lens.  As a kid, I did not want to be “gay” and kissing boys was definitely “gay”, even if that boy is your father¹.  I made this decision at a young age and stopped kissing my dad, maybe even hugging.  My guess is that I was 8 or 9 years old.  I do not remember specifically making it.  I just remember the first time I regretted it.

A year or two after this apparently homophobic decision, my dad and I traveled by car from New Jersey to Maine for a classic father-son fishing trip with another father and his son, Johnny, who was two or more years older than me.  Our destination was a rustic cabin on a lake.   It was not designed by Martha Stewart and it showed.  We cooked with a wood burning stove, used an outhouse, slept in bunk beds.  It was great. I occasionally have back-to-nature-hippy-survivalist daydreams about living in a cabin like that one.   Fishing must have been frustrating for the other three.  With beginner’s luck, over two days I caught the only three fish.

On our first night in the cabin, I remember hopping into the top bunk with my dad in the bunk below me.   All the bunk beds were in one room almost like in a military barracks.  Johnny was also a top bunk guy and he and his dad were going to sleep near us.  We all went to bed at the same time.  However, before getting in bed, Johnny took a detour to give his dad a loving hug and kiss.  It was not “gay” at all.  At that moment, I regretted my decision.  I wanted to kiss my dad, but backtracking seemed impossible.

Several years later, I became a father to Hannah and Mason, born nearly two years apart and now employed college graduates.  We had kissing ritual when they were growing up – I have one with my wife, Rebecca, too.  It’s nothing elaborate, just a quick good night kiss.   I cherished our little moments of loving affection at the end of the day.   As Mason grew up, I felt especially grateful that we still kissed almost every night because I knew those moments were happening on borrowed time.   As expected, he did eventually grow out of it.   I did not feel bad.  We substituted fist bumps and created a new ritual.  When the kids come home for holidays or long weekends, we mostly keep the ritual – fist bump for Mason, kiss on forehead for Hannah.   Simple and sweet –  I love those kids.

That visit in April with my dad was a great last memory for me.  With intense attention from his health care team, my dad had gained strength for his surgery and was optimistic about the future.  He was generous, charming and funny and a model patient.  We talked for nearly two days and covered a lot of territory.  We did not cover intimate topics, because we just do not, and I did not ask what he thought about his son stopping kissing him at a young age.   My dad’s wife, Margie, and her daughter got takeout from Outback Steakhouse, which was nice substitute for hospital food.  They even smuggled in a little vodka so I could have a cocktail with dinner.

My dad’s surgery was a failure, though we did not know it immediately.   I last spoke to him on Father’s Day 2018 when he was staying near the hospital at my stepsister’s house.   I am not sure what we talked about, but I still have the positive feelings of a really nice conversation.  I was grateful that he made the time in his weakened state. Shortly after that he returned to the hospital and stayed until the end.  I wanted my final memories of my dad to be the fond ones from my April visit.  For that reason I chose not to visit him again.  I am grateful to Margie, my sisters, stepsisters and mom who were by his side at various points through the end and had to see a once strong man endure the hope and disappointment of his final decline.  I am also glad I kissed him good-bye.

¹My dad was raised on a cattle ranch in Eastern Oregon and had ranching in his blood.   As a scientist in NJ, he and my mom kept a small herd on the property of a generous male couple.  My family socialized with them quite a bit and I cannot recall any negative comments about their arrangement.  I mention this to say that I likely picked up negative thoughts about male kissing from school or broader society, not from my family.   I do know that I acquired some unfortunate language habits in school that I am still working to get out of my system.  The routine insults that boys hurled at each other back then are now clearly homophobic slurs and I regret using them.