I Miss You, Wild Bill

The holidays never pass without me remembering my father. He’s been gone nine years. This is my favorite photo of him. I think it captures both his wild side (mohawks anyone?) and his sweetness. He died of heart failure, mostly due to years of drinking and smoking. He was such an addict. But, in retrospect, he probably shaped me — for better or worse — more than anyone.

Bill Duran worked at a cement plant and was the President of the union for many years. He was a lifelong Democrat and a flamboyant storyteller; he loved people and worked hard. But his union business consumed him, and he would often come home blitzed, bust things up and pass out. Coming from a rough background (he was orphaned as a child and eventually raised by nuns), he had difficulty understanding my creative bent. I was always reading, writing or drawing. But my social skills and math scores were well below acceptable. And being I was the firstborn, I received special “motivation” to improve. It created a palpable tension between us for many years, and eventually led to him booting me out of the house when I turned 18.

Shortly after I became a Christian in 1980, my Dad admitted himself to a Care Unit for alcoholism. It was the first time in over 20 years that I recall anyone in my family using the word “alcoholic”. But it was also the most courageous thing I ever saw my father do. He remained sober for the rest of his life, became the president of an AA chapter, and helped a lot of people. I was so proud of him.

Later on, he suffered a massive stroke that left him comatose for about a month. The doctor suggested we consider pulling the plug on him, but we waited. I would go to the hospital on my lunch breaks and talk to him while he lay there on the ventilator. For once in our lives, I did the talking and he listened. But to everyone’s amazement, he pulled out of it. Yeah, he was a little slower, but his heart had been broken. To my mother’s dismay, he kept smoking. Yet, after that, he also seemed to live life more fully. He remained devoted to his AA groups and every Christmas he would dress as Santa Claus for hospitalized kids. And whenever I talked to him about Jesus, he would profess faith, his own unworthiness, and get all choked up. Eventually, his condition worsened; he was confined to a wheelchair and an assisted living facility. And then one day in Spring, his organs just shut down.

So it’s Thanksgiving, and I’m thinking about my Dad. (Is this what aging is like?) I miss him. He was funny, good-natured, and had a gentle heart. He loved the holidays with all the kids and grandkids. And food. He used to say he was “a good bad example.” But in retrospect, he was a better “good example” than a bad one. Looking forward to seeing him again. I miss you, Wild Bill.