Five years ago, my only brother died accidentally after a night of heavy drinking. He died in his 50s, just like my father. As I mentioned earlier, my brother had a difficult time listening to the song Cat’s In The Cradle, a song about a father who never had time for his son. We were out driving one day when that song started playing on the car radio. He made me turn it off. I guessed, at the time, that he saw himself as that son. The dad in the song, of course, was my father.
Fast forward a few decades. The last time I spoke to my brother, a few months before he died, I was rather surprised by a comment he made. He said that it was my fault that he and my dad didn’t go fishing very often. They (he and my dad) wanted to go, but I put a stop to it because I didn’t like to fish.
(Members of the jury, I’d like to point out that I am the younger brother. As if little brothers ever get their way.)
My brother had a definite chip on his shoulder that he had carried since childhood, and it had my name on it, not my dad’s. To set the record straight, I have nothing against lakes or trout. I remember a trip or two to the lake—my dad would fill an ice-chest with lots of beer, find a sturdy twig to prop up his pole, then sit for hours on the bank waiting for the fish to bite. My brother stayed faithfully by his side and did the same, minus drinking the beer. I would fish, too, but after two or three hours, I would start to wander, and eventually I would swim. What’s not to like?
I admit that I did lack enthusiasm in one key area—getting my dad to follow through on his promises. About 95% of these planned trips were postponed because we could literally not find my father. He would sneak out before sun up and hide at a bar. My brother and mother would organize the search, calling bars, driving past his regular hangouts, but my dad proved to be a good hider. He’d eventually come home and claim that the fish stopped biting an hour ago so it was pointless to head to the lake. Then he’d make the disappointment go away by promising a fishing trip for the next weekend. See the pattern?
My brother’s revelation that I was the creepy father in the song hit me hard. I realized that my dad had established a solid support group for himself. My brother was making excuses for him. My mother was trying to salvage his fatherhood. My dad had people working on his behalf. Where were my people?
As a kid, I had a whole life to develop. For starters, I had to keep up on the three R’s. I had piano lessons. I had to learn to tread water for a solid minute for clearance to play in the deep end of the public swimming pool. College was only 9 years away. I wish I had developed a support group equal in vigor to my dad’s. I wish I had recruited people to remind me to focus on my dreams—despite the distraction of the alcoholic in the room. People who would have pounded it into my head that the world was not going to slow down for me.
My dad had access to two support groups, that I know of. One group was united in coming to his defense, as I’ve illustrated above. He liked that group. The other group advocated sobriety and first names only. He ignored that group. I had access to support groups, too, but I didn’t foster any like my dad did. I shied away from them because, well, I was ashamed to be the son of an alcoholic. Had I known that so many people were protecting my dad, essentially leaving me free to do what I wanted to do, I would have never quit piano lessons when I was 10.
Into the Comfort Zone 