I spent my 4th of July playing host to my good friend from out of town, which included an entire rushed BBQ performance by yours truly at 8:00 PM, after a two hour drive and a huge family BBQ I could not ditch fast enough.
It was during that 2 hour drive, after leaving the BBQ with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I realized something- growing up, my mother was the inspiration to us, and the motivation. She was a woman of beauty, creativity, and high German standards. I always thought she was the heart of the family too, but five years on now without the guy and I can with absolute certainty that it was my Dad the whole time. Quietly, and consistently.
My mom’s empathy was performative, blanketed in religious fashion across the entire human race. She would use her tremendous levels of energy to pursue the endorphin release of doing ‘good deeds’ for anyone and everyone around around that she could justify. Very out in the open about it. Very on the nose about it.
My Dad, on the other hand, didn’t pretend or even appear to give a single fig for the random people of the world or their problems. He hated the spotlight, and was always the first to leave a party. He always kind of did his own thing, with his own field of gravity, and unlike my mother who required obedience- and would administer petty tests and punishments to enforce it- his gravity did not have agents constantly trying to force people into orbit.
His gravity was just there, like an open door. Freedom and autonomy was his primary currency. A bit like a pirate of sorts, on the high seas- bending or ignoring rules made by or for less competent people, and weaving around traditional paths and traditional obstacles, to sail through any goal or objective with swiftness and joy and pride.
And unlike my mother, who was a stone wall 75% of the time unless her mood allowed her to be receptive to people with questions for her while she lived her saintly life of good deeds, my Dad’s door was always open. The one not trying to force me into it, was the one that I could actually use at will.
The 4th of July was HIS holiday. As a Vietnam veteran (drafted, not by choice) son of a WW2 veteran (also drafted, not by choice), he loved the american flags, fireworks, BBQ, beers, friends, family, the whole 9. His orbit on the 4th was always a huge party at his house in the middle of downtown Harbor Springs, a little watering hole oasis in the sea of wealthy resorters for the locals to stop at for refreshments food and facilities.
I could make zero plans for the day, like a true child, show up when I wanted for feelings of welcomed belonging and BBQ, and duck out whenever I wanted knowing I was not offending anyone with the practice, least of all my Dad whom it mattered singularly to me. And so, growing up, my 4th of July tradition, even as an adult when he was still alive, was to cast myself into his orbit and just enjoy the ride.
I miss his gravity; his “place.”
It did exist. I was in it. I swear it existed.
Did it?
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