I remember being held against my father’s hairy chest as an infant.
I remember him devotedly diving deep attempting unsuccessfully to rescue my silver pail that was pulled from my 4 year old hand by the murky lake. And my sobbing tears.
I remember the rowdiness of the silly songs he sang to my brother and I in our beds when he returned late from work , often.
His love of fresh water lakes and streams and walking in the wooded land was a gift he gave us.
His frustration with teaching me and his anger brought on by my emotionality and mistakes is even now sometimes painful.
His lack of guidance and embarrassment left me clueless about sexuality, for quite a while.
The blessings he gave to me, honoring my path, and opening his heart in his late years and inviting my presence into his dying, shine a glowing light of forgiveness diminishing all other shadows.
In remembering what my father modeled I am able to forgive the multitude of missed marks in my fathering.
I am able to stand proudly in my warrior stance knowing I did the best with what I knew at the time, as he did, and his father before, and as my son’s are doing now.
I am able to empower all of our visions of being healthy , whole, balanced men who provide as best we can using our heads, our hearts and our bodies for our family, our partners, and this world, while being fully open to the joy of just being and a relaxing picnic.
Story written by S. Backinoff son of Irving.