I entered the family when they were 19, 21, and 24 — my three sons. As might be expected, my three sons were suspicious of me. Who was this man who claimed he was my … my what? I was not their father. I was not yet their friend. They hardly knew me. Besides, my three sons all looked alike to me. They ranged from six feet four inches to six feet seven inches in height. And they were all handsome. I labored to learn their names. Few things are more insulting than not to know one’s name. A name is the identifier, the social badge that belongs to the one who carries it. The frown of the son when I miscalled his name, especially if the name was that of one of his brothers, was a frown not to be forgotten. Name learning was my first important task — other than marrying their mother. Definitely!
Time passed. My three sons became my friends. I had learned their names during those years. Something like twenty years later (more or less), at a family dinner, I asked all three to come into the kitchen. They came, along with a spouse or two and a grandchild. After telling the spouse(s) and the grandchild how much I loved them, this is what I said to my three sons:
“You are my sons. I couldn’t love you more if you were my flesh and blood. I wanted to tell you that while I still had time to do so. I couldn’t be more proud of each of you.”
A simple speech. Certainly, not Churchillian. I’ll let Mr. Churchill have his glory. At any rate, my three sons crowded each other as they came to me to hug me and shake my hand. That simple speech was the tie that binds. From then on I was their father as well as their friend. How powerful are words? I hugged the spouse(s) and the grandchild as well so they would know that they belonged to me also. My sons are now in their fifties. I’ll love them till I die.
How families have changed since I was a boy. With multiple marriages producing multiple children, with those children having multiple parents, the old country song, “I’m my own grandpa,” is not so far-fetched. My granddaughter, when she was five (now approaching thirty), was riding in the backseat of my car with her newly acquired sibling of the same age. She entered into an argument with her new sister about grandparents. Her new step sister claimed that she liked her new grandparents (wife and me). My granddaughter obstinately argued that my wife and I were HER grandparents and belonged to no one else. New sister was ordered not to call HER grandparents, her grandparents. (That sentence is a mess. It’s even difficult to write about today’s tangled web of families.) After a few months, this problem went away, You can guess why,
My only brother died a month ago, one day before his 84th birthday. He was ten years younger than me. My brother was my half-brother, the child of my mother and step-father. I had acquired two step-sisters and a step-brother with my widowed mother’s marriage, a family much larger than I was accustomed to. We were a happy family, especially for me, even though my new siblings were ten or more years older than me. Years later when I acquired my second family as related above, I thanked my Father in heaven for giving me happiness beyond what many families in similar situations might experience.
With death of a loved one comes memories as well, in this instance memories of my brother. When I was a teenager, my brother was four years old. We lived in a neighborhood that still had corner grocery stores run by moms and pops. When we needed an item from the store, we simple walked the block and charged it. Four-year- olds learn fast. One hot summer day, my brother took his little red wagon with him to the grocery store and charged a large watermelon to the family account. Certainly, the family had ordered it! As might be expected, my step father ordered him to return the watermelon to the grocery store. On the way back to the store, he stopped at every house along the way and tried to sell the watermelon to the residents. This was not a sign of things to come? During his working years, he was a computer programmer for several large banks in Phoenix.
I miss my brother. I always will, but I have three sons to take up the slack (and their mother). And a granddaughter who is studying for her doctorate in nursing. She lives in Houston and likes it. (Where did her parents go wrong?) Nevertheless, life, like time, marches on.
Carl Fowler is a retired professor of English at Amarillo College and lives in Amarillo.
This article originally appeared on Amarillo Globe-News: Three sons, a girl, and a brother | OPINION
Reporting by By Carl Fowler, Special to the Amarillo Globe-News / Amarillo Globe-News
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