That dude, my dad...

Whenever I think of my dad, I think of Christmas.  My dad was that, my Christmas.  He had this wonderful childlike quality. He seemed to live in a spirit of awe.  Yet he had an enigmatic, somewhat innocent air - of not really being touched for most of his life by the harshness of what was sometimes presented. I adored my dad and was mesmerised by the way he drew people to him with that roguish, charismatic way that was so uniquely 'Wally'. That wicked, devilish cackle that melted my heart each time I heard it.  Everybody loved my dad.

Like Christmas, there was something almost magical about my father. But magic can have its dark side. It has a way of singeing those caught it its dazzling light. Yet the pain was never lingering.  That certain smile, that certain word could make you forget whatever disappointment, hurt or anger he may have caused.  Quickly forgotten.

The legacy my dad left me has no monetarial value, but the richness of heart and soul he bestowed on me has left me immeasurably wealthy. For he had that in bucket loads, heart and soul.  Yep, that dude, my dad he had a lot of soul and the hugest heart.

The part that I didn't quite get though was how this larger than life dude remained emotionally unavailable to us, his kids.  He was brilliant with other people, with other kids.  Yet to us, his own, he was this large persona  but always distant. He never really allowed us to get too close. Towards the end of his life I got the sense that he had been damaged by his own parents, his life experiences and that closeness with those he loved deeply scared him; that in is mind would make him seem vulnerable, almost weak.  Sad in a way, because I always felt that we kinda missed out, my dad and I.

And now on Father's Day as I reflect back on the last four years since my dad passed on, there is a part of me that feels somewhat cheated.  That if he had been less intent on being the dad he thought society demanded of him, less a product of his time, then maybe just maybe he would have been more of what I needed.  More giving of himself, more open to receiving my love.  His apparent detachment however left me not knowing if it would be welcomed or not, and I in turn therefore did not go there.

But would I want it any different if we had the chance to go back and change things.  I don't know.  Maybe.  I guess that's the thing with retrospect, it gives you the wisdom to look at things more squarely; and yes, I suppose some of it would be done differently. However, would I ultimately have changed my dad for any other?  Hell no, for that dude, my dad, is what God meant me to have.  And all things being equal, he did okay, he did the best he could - and I've come to accept that. Even with his limitations, my dad was a good person.  He was the best dad he could be, rather than the best dad I would have preferred.