This is a story I’ve been sitting on for some time now. I think my dad told me this about a year ago. I decided not to write about it. I’ve had it on my list of possible blog topics/stories since I began the list. As a matter of fact, it’s bullet point number 2. For some reason I could not bring myself to share it. I think it’s time.
About a year ago my dad, my uncle, a couple of their cousins, and I sat on the front porch of a house we were restoring. It was break time. My dad and my uncle were telling stories from their childhood. I shared a couple of those stories and other pieces of the conversation here and here if you’d like to relive the moment.
At some point the stories took a turn toward the early 80’s. During that time my dad was working on the Gulf Coast. He spent most weeks in Gulf Shores or Destin then came home on the weekends. When he stayed on the coast he shared an apartment with some of the electricians who worked for him. One of which was Jimmy.
Jimmy was about 5’4” and as friendly a guy as I’ve met. I first met Jimmy around age 11. I thought he was great. He drove a little green Toyota truck that we dubbed “The Green Frog.” Jimmy was a laid back, no worries kind of guy.
Being the naïve 11 year-old that I was, I had no idea these were telltale signs that he was a stoner. Jimmy liked his pot. He worked hard during the day. He partied just as hard at night.
I have heard most of the stories my dad tells at least once. I’ve heard many of them multiple times. On this day, last July, stories about the coast led to stories about the rampant drug use on the Coast in the 80s. Those stories led to stories about Jimmy. Stories about Jimmy led to a story I had never heard. A story that shocked me.
My dad came back to the apartment one day and Jimmy was partaking in his afternoon ritual. He was smoking weed. My dad had never smoked marijuana. He had never had the urge or temptation. Something was different that day.
To paraphrase my dad: My brother and I were soon to be teenagers and he knew we would be tempted to try it. He decided he needed to experience “getting high” so he would know what we would face.
My dad smoked marijuana. As far as I know it was the first and only time in his life. I know it doesn’t sound like much in this age when we’ve had a president who “didn’t inhale” and two who have admitted cocaine use, but I was shocked! As far as I knew he had never tried any illicit drugs. None! Never! Not that he told me that he didn’t. I just, well, I knew.
I can’t say that I lost any respect for my dad that day. I guess I just viewed him as a little more human. I'm not saying he doesn’t have his flaws. He does. Trust me, I know.
There are certain assumptions and beliefs we have about our parents. We grow up looking at them as some sort of a super hero. I don’t mean the modern day flawed “dark” hero. We see them as Superman of the 50s or Wonder Woman; flawless; virtuous; like a statue that stands as a monument to moral authority.
Little by little those statues crumble. Over time cracks appear. We realize our parents are all too human after all. With each realization, a little more stone flecks away.
We learn about sex. “My parents don’t have sex!” Uh oh, there goes a finger.
Curse words. “My mom never curses.” She drops an egg. Part of an ear flakes off.
They argue. A leg starts to peel away.
At some point we finally see our parents as they truly are. Human. Mortal flesh. They succumb to temptation just like the rest of the world. They are not perfect or really even all that close to perfect.
That realization comes all too early for some. Some children see the entire sculpture collapse into a pile of rubble in a matter of moments. Others are lucky enough to see just a few cracks that take years to develop.
I, for one, am glad for the cracks. I long for the flakes of imperfection. They prove to me that I’ll be all right as a parent. Because even if my kids don’t see them yet, I have my cracks. I have entire chunks missing. Recognizing that my parents have those same cracks lets me know that it’s ok. I can still be a good dad. Even if I’m not as shiny and flawless as my kids think I am.
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