I suppose it’s time to talk about Dad — and if you’re reading this, congratulations, you’ve signed up for a front-row seat to my “daddy issues.”

 

I first met my father about 60 years ago, though I don’t remember that particular meeting. I’m sure he does. Growing up with Dad was… interesting. Not because he was a bad father — far from it — but because he was a man navigating a world that didn’t make much room for who he truly was.

 

Dad always wanted to be a teacher and became a very successful one. But in his day, being an openly gay teacher wasn’t an option. So, he did what many people of his generation did: he built a family with my mom and, despite everything, managed to create two “normal children.” (I can already hear my sister and friends choking on their coffee laughing at that statement. You’re welcome.)

 

Mail Call and Super Mutants

 

As an aside — because my brain wanders like a drunk mole rat — you can always tell when mail delivery happens in my neighborhood. Half a dozen dogs, including mine, completely lose their minds in perfect chorus. You’d think a battalion of super mutants was approaching, ready to wipe out civilization, but no — it’s just our poor mailman innocently dropping envelopes into a box. Ironically, if the super mutants did show up, I doubt the dogs would even raise their heads. Priorities.

 

Back to Dad

 

I’ve long said this blog’s unofficial tagline is “Be nice to your dog and your mom,” but really, Dad deserves to be in there, too. In my later years, we’ve grown very close — and I’m incredibly grateful for that. During my mom’s final years and especially when Jacob decided to leave this life, Dad dropped everything to be there.

 

My parents divorced when I was eleven, and after that, I saw Dad mainly during summer visits. Mom moved away, and eventually Dad did too, leaving Kansas behind. I didn’t know about his sexuality until high school, when Mom casually blurted out that he was bisexual while dropping me off one morning. (Timing was never her strong suit.)

 

Back in 1970s Kansas, nobody talked about sexuality — unless it was whispered, mean-spirited, and dripping with judgment. So I grew up oblivious. When Dad moved, he always had a “roommate.” It’s funny how even today people still cling to that word when what they really mean is “partner.”

 

Learning and Growing

 

Teen years are messy, and I was no exception. I wasn’t a stellar human being. But as an adult, I’ve come to value my father deeply. He even took me to my first gay bar — 728 Duvall in Key West, for those keeping score — because there were exactly zero gay bars in Billings, Montana at the time.

 

He’s a good father. The kind of father I’m lucky to have, and the kind of father I hope I’d be if I’d had kids of my own.

 

Since Jacob passed, Dad has been even more present. He admitted that for years he stayed away because Jacob made him uncomfortable. When he came to visit in 2023, his first comment was, “This is the first time I’ve been in your house where I didn’t feel like I needed a drink.” If you know my dad, you know that’s saying something.

 

He’s come to stay when I’ve needed help — and sometimes just because he wanted to. We’re mellow when he’s here: a lot of talking, sometimes just sitting in companionable silence. He loves watching me explore the Wasteland in Fallout, which is surreal when your father is the one asking, “Can I try playing for a bit?”

 

Shared Understanding

 

Dad has been a steady source of insight through grief. He’s been there — his long-term partner passed from what was likely an accidental overdose. Empathy has a twisted sense of irony sometimes.

 

With Mom gone, Dad is now the last living parent. He’s as important to me as she was, though in a different way. Mom could never be Dad, and Dad could never be Mom. But both shaped me, and both loved me.

 

So, as I sit here with my dogs losing their minds over the mailman, I realize that some constants remain: your dog, your mom, and your dad. Love them while you can. You have less time with them than you think.