The Story of My Father

At some point a few years back, my dad decided to write his autobiography. It began as he was sorting photos. He knew that many of them would need context to be meaningful (always the psychologist!) and so he began to write about the photos, which triggered other memories, and soon the project took on a life of its own.

He wrote the chapters in no particular order, and when he had one in pretty good shape, he would pass it on to me, relying on my editing eye to sharpen his material. The writing was part history and part myth; every once in a while I’d correct something that I knew was misremembered, but for the most part having my dad’s take on any given detail was more important than having the facts straight. He and I both recognized that the process of writing was therapeutic. He was able to understand his relationships in new ways as he put his reflections on the page, and the passing of time and his own accumulated wisdom allowed him to come to terms with choices made decades earlier.

After sorting and scanning the photos and writing and editing the two dozen chapters, Dad had invested enough of himself in the manuscript that he wanted to create an actual professional-grade book. A friend had tipped me off that there are companies that do this sort of thing, and so we found one online, and together he and I got to work. While the kids were at school, Dad would come over and, chapter by chapter, we’d sit at the computer and tweak the pages I had roughed in earlier.

Dad was very particular, and the book program was not able to do some of the things I wanted it to do—at least not easily. This was tedious work, and there were days when I wanted to tell him to find himself another editor. But then I figured, he’d done a few things for me over the years that were probably not his first choice (my seventh grade band concert comes to mind), so I kinda owed him. We rearranged, we argued, we changed our minds, and together we built his life story in 400 pages. Then we sent it to the publishing company and ordered up copies for family members. It had been a long, intense, expensive process, and we couldn’t have been more proud.

My siblings, of course, were delighted with their copies. I love mine, too, and treasure it. It’s an amazing gift to us and to the generations that are to come. The book has taught us so much about my dad and his “ordinary” life. He’s cheated death multiple times, has known great love and great loss, and has initiated programs that have impacted individuals and institutions. He’s also been a great teacher, a great friend, and a great father. He’s continued to grow and learn and enjoy life into his eighties. He really is an exceptional human being.

The book is for me a double blessing, because I not only got to learn all of this about my father, I also got to work with him on the process.  We’ve generally worked well on our share of projects together over the years— wallpapering, painting, gardening—but this was the first time I was the expert and he was the trainee. Although he was calling the shots, we were shifting roles. It was a holy moment.

Even at my advanced age, some things don’t change. Although he loves and respects me and has seen me do many grown-up things successfully, I know my dad still sees me as a kid, someone who still needs his advice and approval. And he’s right; I still do. I’m grateful that we are still learning from each other.