Ode to the Bad Dad

My father used to say he was “a good bad example.” But in retrospect, he was probably a better “good example” than a bad one.

At this writing. he’s been gone 20 years. This pic (to the right) is my favorite photo of him. It hangs in my office. 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 became the President of the union for many years. He often proclaimed himself to be for “the little guy.” He was a lifelong Democrat and a flamboyant storyteller; he loved people and worked hard. But his union business consumed him, and he soon spiraled into alcoholism. He would often come home blitzed from a “union meeting,” bust things up, and pass out in his recliner. My mother always worried that his smoldering, unattended cigarettes would burn the house down.

I learned later that he was a byproduct of an awful childhood… information that was hard to come by in our house. One of my aunts recalled finding my father once locked in a closet in his stepfather’s house. Orphaned at an early age, my father grew up on the streets of Monessen, PA, stealing, conniving, and running with packs of ragamuffins. He took up smoking at the age of eight and eventually, was taken in by Catholic nuns. Constantly in trouble with the law, by his teens, my father was given the option to join the service or go to jail. He promptly joined the United States Marine Corps.

Perhaps this is why he and I bumped heads so much. He had difficulty understanding my creative bent, and would sometimes mock me for drawing and writing poetry. I was far-removed from that pack of hardened boys he used to run the streets with. He worked hard to put me through nine years of Catholic school. But my social skills and math scores were well below acceptable. And being I was the firstborn, I received special “motivation” to improve. Corporal punishment for poor grades was, like the holidays, an annual event. By high school, I was carrying the torch he’d commandeered. Drugs, alcohol, and criminal behavior created a palpable tension between us for many years, and eventually led to him booting me out of the house when I turned 18.

No doubt, he saw himself in me and loathed what he witnessed.

Things changed in 1980 when I became a Christian. Despite his unrepentance, I knew I had to forgive him, and did. As Christ prayed for His Father to forgive the executioners because they “knew not what did,” my father had hurt us all because of his own pain.

So it was that in the mid-to-late ’80’s, 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.

Not long after this, my father suffered a massive stroke. As such events go, it happened at my sister’s wedding reception. I rode in the back of the ambulance with him till we reached the hospital, where he became comatose. After several days of scanning and probing, the doctor suggested we consider pulling the plug on him. People in his condition rarely recover. We decided to wait and see.

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. Those were some of the best conversations we ever had! And to everyone’s amazement, he pulled out of it. Of course, the first thing he said upon awakening was to be given a cigarette.

After that, he was a little slower. But his heart had been broken. To my mother’s dismay, he kept smoking. He’d sneak outside in his walker, sit on the porch, and fire up those unfiltered Pall Malls. Yet, after all 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 and he was confined to a wheelchair.

One afternoon, I received a call from my mother that he’d fallen over and she couldn’t help him up. I drove to their house just to help my father get back up in his wheelchair. Eventually, my mother was unable to care for him, and he was admitted to a nearby assisted-living facility. Being the people person he was, my dad became a hit there. He joked with the nurses and had a reputation for chumming it up with residents. The patio was where he did his smoking, and a contingent of residents would often assemble there to imbibe and reminisce about better days. I’d visit and, sometimes, refer to him as Wild Bill. But his “wild” days were well behind him.

One Thanksgiving, my wife and I packed up some rolls and butter, turkey and gravy, and candied yams. Bringing in “outside” meals was not allowed at the facility. But, like him, I was never much for rules. We weren’t expecting a pat-down, and didn’t get one. My dad’s eyes lit up when he saw some “real” food and proceeded to wolf it down.

It would be the last Thanksgiving I would ever share with my father. 

I received the call at work. It was completely unexpected. His organs were failing, and he had lapsed into a coma. I rushed to the hospital, where I found my mother and brother standing on each side of the gurney. My father lay on a ventilator. I nudged my way in and held his hand. We’d been through this before. Only this time, I didn’t feel a need to invite him to pray the sinner’s prayer.

He had made his peace with God.

I kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye.

We buried him in a Hawaiian shirt and played oldies music at his funeral. My son Jon had become his fishing buddy, so Jon made sure to place the old man’s fishing license in the casket. A young Catholic priest from my mother’s parish performed the service. He proclaimed that even though he’d never met William, he knew he was a good man. It puzzled me how anyone could make such a ludicrous statement. But I’d asked to speak, so I got up without any notes or scripting, and just began sharing. Many of my father’s former coworkers were there, as was a significant contingent from the Alcoholics Anonymous group. I told some funny stories and some tender stories. But most of all, I just wanted to say how much I loved him. He was a survivor. And so was I.

I survived him.

Maybe that’s true of all us fathers. We bring so much junk to the table that, looking back, you can’t help but have regrets. Like Jesus’ executioners, I need forgiveness for not knowing what the hell I’ve done. Was my dad a “bad dad”? Of course, Bill would say so. But bad dads don’t stop being dads. And Wild Bill never stopped being mine.

So it’s Father’s Day 2023, and I’m thinking about him. (Is this what aging is like? LOL!) 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. And any show of kindness or affection would cause him to choke up. He used to say he was “a good bad example.” But in retrospect, he was a better “good example” than a bad one. Perhaps one day I could aspire to be the “good, bad example” that he was. Looking forward to seeing him again. I love you, Dad.