My father was a country boy
Whose mother died when he was three;
His father was a country doc,
Stern but practical, and he
 
Quickly found a sturdy wife
To cook and clean and raise his kids
And though she wasn’t motherly,
With stalwart heart, she did.
 
Dad’s stepmother was BIG and strong
With yellowed-gray braids ’cross her head
I think it was a “quid pro quo”,
I wondered if they shared a bed.
 
So that was how my dad was raised
And as the youngest, felt it more;
Thus, as a father, then, he had
With his own children, no rapport.
                           
He was a product of the times
When children should be “Seen, not heard,”
I wish that he and I had talked
But neither seemed to find the words.
                              
But let me backtrack to the days
When Dad was young, and keen to learn,
His father offered him a chance,
 He took it and began to yearn.
 
My father watched his doctor, Dad,
In horse and buggy, make his rounds;
He sometimes went with him to help,
And when he entered college, found
 
That he desired to be one, too—
A General Surgeon he became;
And then he met and courted Mom
Who, later, gladly took his name.
 
He built his wife a fine big house
And had two kids, my sis and I
And then, the war with Germany—
My Dad signed up, and said good-bye
 
To family for three long years.
Did surgery behinds the lines,
They followed where the fighting went;
All the while avoiding mines.
 
Before he left, there was a time
Our little brother was conceived
And so, he came into the world
While Dad was overseas.
 
When Dad came home, my mother said
His patients, now, had other docs;
He’d hoped they would come back to him—
Impractical, so he took stock
 
And built his practice up again
By working hard, and late house calls,
But never seemed to have the time
To talk with us three kids at all.
 
The only times we laughed and talked
Together, as a family—
Were Sundays when we often had
Fam or friends for company.
 
After work, hospital rounds,
He always came home, tired, at night
But his work ethic gave his kids
A super “starting out” in life.
 
He sent us all to private schools,
Good educations we received
And yet, he couldn’t talk to us,
Non interest, I believed.
 
For money isn’t everything,
It’s time well spent with those you love
Which, means, that we could talk about
Our feelings, or the lack thereof.
 
Why didn’t I feel close to him?
Because both parties need to try
And Dad seemed daunting, and I think
It felt more so as time went by.
 
Much later did I realize
Like my childhood affected me,
His surely had affected him;
I should have done my best to be
 
More understanding of my dad
And make him glad that he’d had me.
But “too late” wishes can’t be heard;
He can’t hear them…can he?