In my Father's House 

(Author's note: This is a personal tale - In the end, I always share too much of myself. I shouldn't be so foolish.)

As always, unapologetically unedited.

My father is a giant of a man. At well over six feet and well past ninety years old, he has towered over the better part of my life. He approaches life from the standards he inherited, not so much genetically but culturally. His viewpoints, or rather his judgments, are final and rendered much like some character from the Old Testament.

Genetically and culturally, his origins are predominantly Mid-Atlantic and Southern, yet it's also from Dad that my sisters and I have inherited our Mayflower ancestry—containing a line to Stephen Hopkins, who was both a Plymouth Rock and at Jamestowne. Dad also a great deal of Quaker ancestry. But then again, those Quakers had no problem kicking people in the ballsack who didn't agree with their 'peaceful' ways.

My father goes to church each Sunday and, his health permitting, one evening out of the week. This is a relatively new phenomenon, though as a younger man, he did frequent a non-denominational Christian church until a greedy work schedule, along with Seagram's Seven, ate up that aspiring Christianity. In the midst of all this, he married my mother, a Connecticut Yankee of Wyoming extraction, had three kids, and divorced her via adultery fifteen years later. From there, he married a wannabe North Carolina Belle, who, in truth, might not have been the brightest gold digger of lost souls. This wannabe Belle adamantly claimed a kinship to Doris Duke, Native American blood, and to have been serenaded by Elvis Presley himself. 

The first two statements I've proven patently false, but interestingly enough, the last one is likely half-true.

https://vitabrevis.americanancestors.org/2022/09/tracing-a-tall-tale-was-elvis-really-in-the-building

In the 1980s, she and Dad climbed what society had to offer them. They espoused a Gordon Gekko style of life management, and danced their way into the Inaugural Balls of the Reagan White House. They were active in Rotary and Kiwanis, and Dad rode horses up Pennsylvania Avenue and in the Rose Parade like some rhinestone cowboy. 

They made and spent money they could I'll afford. It was all about show, as for them it was always about being better than someone else. The people who passed through their lives were similar, their complex greed pretending to be something more than the "have nots" they actually were. Indeed, as they chortled over songs and their Highballs sitting around the Baby Grand their friends were reflections of what they valued. 

Once, during that era, and in an attempt at meaningful conversation, I relayed to Dad about an African American friend of mine from college that I hoped to reconnect with, he replied, "Everyone should own one." Then, as if realizing what he'd said, he followed it up with, "Your grandfather knew 'one of them' once and said he was a friend." After all, it was all about what people saw, what they perceived you to be, that made you who you were, rather than what you actually were inside. Knowing a black man was only important if it somehow enhanced the world's perception of you.

After all of this, they moved off, that is, my father and his well-minked wife, to the wilds of Oregon. They did this, no doubt to escape one of the many creditors or tax boards chasing Dad down through the years, or maybe they just needed a new country club since they'd burned through their last social estate; I can't recall. Here, they joined a fundamentalist Christian Church complete with rock bands playing over them as all begged not to be thrown into the fiery pits. 

It didn't work, of course; my father's ego was too large for such a mélange of stray-ass but we'll meaning people, and his wife bristled at the church's slightest transgression that implied she might not be the most valuable member of the congregation. All of this created a Great Falderal and schism, causing them to be cast out of the Christian Fundamentals and rock and roll band fervor forever. 

Dad was, of course, was both resigned and insulted by all of this unChristian charity towards he and his Mrs. on the part of the fundamentalists. After all, he and the wannabe Doris Duke had even traveled to Israel twice with this group of rock and roll Dunkards, where my father described the people who live on the other side of Bethlehem (the Muslims) as "nothing more than dirty animals." 

Yes, he and his wife had gone there to be baptized with the rest of their flock. I suppose all of this bathing occurred before the fundamentalist folks realized that for Dad, being (twice) baptized in the River Jordan wasn't about forgiveness or salvation or any one of those other vague Christian rock and roll tenets, but rather about showmanship and bragging rights of having gone to "meet Jesus" in person.

"Look at me now, Lord, how could I not be more devoted unto thee?"

Note: Dad has never worked in a soup kitchen, never helped a homeless person, never volunteered to visit the sick and elderly. But hey, he's a "Christian."

And he can't understand why I have my doubts. 

Maybe because Vodka and adultery don't exactly set great examples of Jesus?

However, undeterred, and upon returning home and after their Great Fundamentalist Expulsion, my father, ever the quintessential one, took himself and the wannabe Doris Duke to a Lutheran church where he and she set up a new camp. It was/is a humble church, and on the surface, as long as you dislike the people they tell you to and follow the tenets of the Missouri Synod, you should be fine. At least there was no corny rock band here playing up on a quivering slat of stage and waving hands about for Hosannah to arrive. 

Dad is past ninety now, and his wife has passed away. He goes to Bible Study and is fond of telling me that he "knows more about the Bible than the minister." Well, of course he does. I'm quite sure that Jesus wouldn't have it any other way. But that's my father: he knows more about anything, anyone, has been more places, done more, seen more, and is an expert on any subject asked about, yet all the while saying, "Don't ask me..." as his lead-in line.

A couple of days ago, I told him I was working on a genealogical file that connected an individual to country singer Loretta Lynn. Well, of course, he knew her. I told him about a Mayflower line we share with actor John Wayne. His reply: "Yes, I met him twice, once at the Beverly Hilton. He said he knew me from some place but couldn't figure out where." When my cousin brought up the vaccines and RFK over backyard beers, Dad replied he didn't know him, but he'd "flown on a plane with Bobby..."

Bullshit? Beats me. Really, who cares who you've met?

When I told Dad that I had matched genetically on Ancestry.com to Dan Wells, and exceptional young man, Soap Opera Star, and celebrity of sorts he of course wanted to know how. As I explained the connection, DNA and otherwise, he beamed with pride. It wasn't about pride for me, or pride for Dan, or pride in the connection we'd discovered to our common Mayflower kinfolk.

It was about, you guessed it - him.

In Dad's eyes, none of it would have been possible if it weren't for him. Gee, Dad, did I see you combing through pages of pedigree files? Yeah, not.

Yes, Dad, it's all about you.

Dad is, of course, an ardent Republican and supporter of President Trump. I do try not to "go there" with him on any political fronts. It's not that I haven't been a Republican myself in the past, and that I don't still hold some very Republican ideals. I'm not "Woke," but I am not especially proud that my uncle's funeral this week will likely be attended by some branch of the Sarasota Proud Boys. Yeah, not really my deal - no offense.

It's more than my father considers his form of Republicanism the only true Americanism, and for me, that's a deal breaker. Recently, Dad brought up the subject of illegal immigration and stated unequivocally that President Trump had done so much to stop the flow of illegals across the border. It wasn't that I necessarily disagreed; I just had a few questions, maybe a few caveats about the working-class 'illegals' being treated a tad more fairly. However, as Dad spoke, I just kept my mouth shut. This is bait he likes to throw out to trigger an argument. Then, in typical fashion, my father said, "I could solve that illegal problem better than Trump." (Well, of course he could.) "I would just put them all on an airplane and deport them out the door at 30,000 feet."

Yes, that's my father's Christianity. Those are my father's views of good Republican ways.

Much to his great chagrin, I am my mother's son.

Please don't get me wrong. I love my father and all that he has given me. 

I am especially grateful to be able to see things in ways he can't.

That is his gift to me.