A Phone Call with my Dad

My dad called me on Wednesday. He also called on Thanksgiving last month, so that makes two total calls in about two years. I love my dad, I know he loves me. Each has sent the other a message here or there, and we've even played phone tag a couple times, but we hadn't actually talked in a long, long while. I grew up with him around only in spurts, so this was no challenge to deal with or anything. Just the way things were. The way things are.

James Edward Harrison is 61 and lives in Oregon. He's lived in a lot of places all across this country. He is a very chill, nice man who has that country type of casual attitude. The kind that uses a lot of idioms but would never say the word “idiom.” He and my mother split up when I was two. He used to be so buff from lifting weights in various California institutions, and so tan from hard work, including a job trimming palm trees in Arizona during the Summer. This last bit has helped me hold my tongue when tempted to complain about work on hundreds of occasions. “At least I'm not trimming palm trees in Arizona in the Summer,” I always say.

He has never yelled at me; we've never been in a fight. But he's also never really given me advice. He was around for a bit when my twin and I were about 9, and Julie told him that I hit her when we were fighting. Before I could state my case, he looked at me and said, “Never hit a woman, son. You don't do that.” And though it was very good advice, that's possibly the only time he has offered guidance. Maybe he doesn't feel like it's his place or something, since he hasn't exactly lived a model life.

He spent five years in a prison in Susanville, California from when I was 11 till 16... Those are formative years! We wrote occasionally (I still have a couple letters) and I'm sure he called a couple times, and we talked, but I really missed him. I missed a man I'd never really known, and had no idea why. When he finally got out, we went to see him at my uncle's place in Lodi. I could have thrown up, I was so nervous. We got out of the car and Julie ran up first and gave him a hug. I was next and went to copy my sister, but he had a premeditated handshake ready and so it was  trapped between our chests as I hugged him. My young, beardless face was crying. I was a good 6 inches taller than him, and much leaner. I felt too tall, and too skinny, and I still don't know why. But the awkward moment ended quickly, he regained his had, and we had a lovely visit.

I've seen him so few times since then... I'm ashamed. We had a tearful but milestone call when I lived in Canada at age 19, in which I told him, in a tiny phonebooth, that I held nothing against him, that all was forgiven, and that he'd be my dad forever. I was so grateful that he was crying too, because I think it meant that he also felt this longing that I felt. This longing to be close because of our blood relationship that could never be replaced by anyone else. And I think that he knew, like I did, that this longing would never really be fulfilled. Not the way it was meant to. I'm grown now, I've been raised. The job was done admirably by my mother, among many others. But regardless, I still wanted him in my life.

I was also raised by a stepfather, who tried fell short in so many ways. It was hard, I'm sure, to jump into a big family and be the best stepfather. But after a while, you start to wonder if it's really that hard to be a nice person. We get along quite well now, and I would say we got along pretty well when we lived together. But that's because of me. Because I grew up trading integrity for quiet evenings. Harsh as that sounds, I constantly admitted I did something wrong or kept silent while I was lengthily lectured on how far short I fell. I absorbed so many insults, delivered as statements of fact, that I grew up questioning every movement, ever decision. But if I argued, even with reason and peace, it would only get so much worse. One night, I stood in the kitchen for ten minuted deciding whether to toss away a peanut bar jar or put in back in the cupboard. There was enough left in the jar that throwing it away could mean hearing that I was wasteful and thoughtless, if discovered, while putting it back in the cupboard could mean that I was lazy and, again, thoughtless. Finally I decided that throwing the jar away would at least be a more hidden decision, even if it was wrong. Unfortunately, I seemed to have chosen wrong, because later he went to make a late night snack, looked for the peanut butter, and found the jar in the trash. I heard all about how much peanut butter was left in the jar and how far it could be stretched, and of course, how that thoroughly reflected my flawed character.

But that's how I grew up. As much as I hate it, fathers have a huge impact on how a person is raised. I've spent my whole adult life convincing myself that I can, in fact, make good decisions! I do not mean to complain, only to show how impactful fathers can be on a person. But I heard so much criticism about the most meaningless things, so that a questioning, condescending voice has stayed in my head for years. But there have been very positive improvements. I also do not mean to compare the two, my dad and my step-dad. One happened to be present and generally supportive, but emotionally distant, while the other was absent, but kind and warm. But still absent.

But on Wednesday my dad called me. It was a sunny winter day and he was sober and attentive. I talked about everything to him like I knew him; like he had walked in the door from work every night of my childhood. For fifteen minutes, I paced a parking lot and updated him about where I worked, what I was studying; I asked him where he thought I  should transfer and other difficult life decisions in my head, and of course, sports. He listened, answered, laughed, all in his casual, “Jimmy Smooth” way. (That's his nick name, or so I've heard.) Before we hung up, he told me that he believed I could make the right choice, and that no matter what I chose, he was behind me. How powerful, to hear those words! How they conflicted with what I've learned to believe about myself!

After hanging up, I allowed myself to feel sadness. Deep regret that I did not enjoy this mysterious person, this powerful influence in my life for more than this phone call. I feel like I would have matured so much stronger, more sure of myself, less passive aggressive, more respectful, and that I would have chased after affection far less, if his steady input was around me. But it wasn't, and I've been so insecure. And I have hurt others, and I'm still far from the peaceful man I want to be.

But after this sadness, I felt excitement and possibility! I could be that steady force for someone, someday! One day, little Harrisons will be running around and I've been thinking, What a great thing it could be, if I could be better, trust in God, and be a steady, cool, listening, advice-giving, caring, good father? Well, I think I would be the happiest man on earth, if I was a good father.

I'm James Lowell Harrison, and I'm 24. I have so far to go, so many more decisions to make in my life. But I have friends, family, coworkers, my step-dad, and my dad to ask for advice. It's become a group effort, and there's nothing wrong with that. But I've had a taste of what a good dad is like. And I've seen some great examples over the years, and I have God in Heaven who forgives like no other. Thanks for reading!