I remember it as if it were yesterday, but it may have happened fifty years ago. I was sitting in our converted garage/family room — tastefully decorated with AstroTurf and lime green cabinets to match — playing my little guitar.
My dad walked in and sat down on the couch. He was an olive-skinned man, but that day he was pale as a ghost. I was strumming away and asked him what was going on.
“We’re broke,” he said, with tears in his eyes.
Without missing a beat, I said, “Well, I guess I’d better get a job!”
I was about fourteen at the time and had only helped Dad out at the office. I had never really worked before and wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into.
I slung my guitar over my back and rode my bike a few miles to the pizza place where we used to hang out when I was in high school. Somehow I talked them into letting me play for tips and pizza, and so my music career began. I had no amps or sound system. It was just me and the guitar, and I had to sing loud for people to hear.
Every Friday and Saturday, I’d ride the old bike to my gig and spend time with the staff until it was time for me to go onstage, so to speak. I guess they liked me, because I played there until I started college. They even named a pizza after me, “the Bart Special,” perhaps the first vegetarian pizza in town.
Those were fun times despite the financial hardships. Dad never fully recovered financially, and we started living differently. No more country club.
Things were less extravagant, but I was too young to realize the toll this took on my parents. It all seemed OK to me, but they argued more.
My dad never blamed anyone for what happened. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other and got things done.
Then he was diagnosed with cancer. I was still in college but I visited every weekend to be by his side. I still remember holding his hand and realizing how big his hands were compared to mine. He was lucid much of the time, and we enjoyed being together. I made sure to let him know how important he was to me and that I wanted to be a good man like him.
Dad went through a lot in his later years, but his outlook on the world remained positive until the day he died. Spending those last few months with him is one of the things in my life that I am happiest about. He brought me into the world, and I was there to help him go to the next.
Although it’s still sad that he’s gone, the time we had together was a gift. My dad enjoyed a good cigar, so every Father’s Day I light up a stogie in his honor. Most of it just burns in the ashtray (I still have the one he used) but the smell reminds me of the journalist-turned PR man who could always make me laugh.
The memories we hold onto don’t happen by accident — they’re made in the time we choose to spend together. If you can, make more of them now.
Love you, Dad. Thanks for looking out for me.
Barton Goldsmith, Ph.D., is an award-winning psychotherapist and humanitarian. He is also a columnist, the author of eight booksa a nd a blogger for PsychologyToday.com with nearly 35 million readers. He is available for in-person and video consults worldwide, reach him at Barton@BartonGoldsmith.com.
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