Props for Pops

I reached for the ringing hand set and glanced at the Caller ID. Father. Bracing myself for bad news, I answered guardedly.

As soon as it became clear that no one was dead, I relaxed. Breathed a little easier.

It still makes me nervous when he calls, I would tell Roommate later.

I vividly remember the first time I ever got a phone call from Father. Which isn't really that remarkable, since it was only two years ago. Considering I literally made it 23 years before ever picking up the phone to hear his voice, it makes a bit of sense that I'm still inclined to think the worst when he dials me up.

Before that Stepmom had always done the calling, no matter the reason. Father got on the line only when she passed the phone his way.

When I went away to college, I talked to Stepmom at least once a week, and Father slightly less often. At first.

Then, I started thinking about my relationship with the man. Or, more precisely, the lack thereof.

I decided that he didn't know how to deal with me. From what I could tell, Father viewed women in two ways:
1. As mother-like figures to be respected.
2. As sexual objects.

As his daughter, I didn't fit into that equation. Our conversations rarely drifted from the subject of the weather. They became incredibly frustrating.

Frustrated with his lack of initiative and tired of having entire conversations that consisted of It's 110 in the shade and same here, I stopped calling him. Stopped asking for him when I called Stepmom. Stopped letting her hand the phone off.

Stepmom: Your dad just walked in. Do you want to talk to him?
Belle: Nah.

She tried to get me to talk to him. Growing less and less acquiescent, I began refusing to fake politeness to my own detriment.

Stepmom: It hurts your dad's feelings that you don't talk to him when you call.
Belle: It hurts my feelings that he never calls me. That he's never called me. All we talk about is the weather, anyway. We both know it's hot and miserable. It's always hot and miserable.

I wasn't refusing maliciously. I just didn't see the point. I'd resigned myself to the fact that I was an anomaly in my father's life. That our bond was weak, at best. That our views on life were so different the only polite conversation we could have was discussing heat factors and humidity.

Then, one night while I was working, my phone rang. Father. I stepped outside to take the call, expecting to hear that someone was gravely ill or had passed away.

But it wasn't that at all. He'd just called. To chat. To see how I'd been. To offer fatherly advice. To let me know he was thinking of me.

That was in the spring of 2005. We usually catch up with each other once or twice a month these days. Last night our conversation moved from the weather to work to the merits of fresh seafood over frozen to softball to his grandsons/my nephews. It may not sound like much to some,* but it's a helluva lot more than I ever expected.

I know you've been on your own for a while and you take care of yourself. Just keep an eye out. Be aware of your surroundings. It's your best defense... I just want you to know I'm always thinking about you.

The man, he's trying. And I have to give him props for that.


* Roommate, I'm thinking of you and your daily parental contact here. ;-)