Dedication to my Father

Dear Dad,

Sorry to be late again. I had actually forgotten Father’s Day this year. Since I became a father myself, I don’t particularly like Father’s Day, matter of fact I hate it. I love being a father, but during this time of the year, I’m in Tokyo and being separated on Father’s Day from my daughter is especially difficult for me. While all the other fathers in Japan are getting cards and presents from their kids, I’m stuck by myself. So I was actually trying to forget about Father’s Day.

But a few days ago, one of my old highschool friends, told me that he had gotten the guitar book I wrote as a present for Father’s Day and it reminded me once again of you.

I did a lot of soul searching over this and wanted to tell you something, something I probably never said before. Although you never talked much about it, I know you grew up in way worse times than me. You were fourteen when World War II ended and having grown up in Hamburg, probably the most bombed city in Europe, had your share of tragedies. I remember you told me once that your home got bombed while you were out during the day, and you told me of the sirens going off in the middle of the night and rushing to the basement of your building to put on gas masks. And you told me that you would go up to the roof of your apartment building after the air raids were over each night to count the fires in the city. I recall you once told me that you had no place to live and lived on a boat for a while.

But usually these stories only came when I asked you about your childhood, you never once gave me that; “You kids have it too easy, you know, when I was a kid we….” type of talks. I remember a story you told me about the war, how you kept a goat for milk and cheese and how it got stolen. And that the thieves were decent enough to leave the head behind so at least you could make soup. I never knew till Mom told me that your father had been away in the war for years and years and your family thought he had died till he finally came back after the war was over.

You never got the chance to go to college and become an architect like you wanted but because of you I had the chance to become anything I wanted. Sorry I became a musician, even you never complained about that either. You never said you had a miserable childhood and never complained about the bad set of cards you got dealt in life. I know you had your demons to deal with and unlike so many people, you kept it a private battle.

When you got in your twenties, you packed your bags and looked for a new life in America. You came on a boat from Europe with a couple hundred bucks and a German/English dictionary, landed a job, got married to a beautiful American woman and raised a family. You took good care of us and your spirit of adventure rubbed off on me. Because of what you did; leaving home to find new opportunities, I could find the courage to do it too. First Los Angeles, then Tokyo.

I suppose you never wanted us to have the kind of life you did and we didn’t, we grew up never knowing of such things. Matter of fact we were spoiled, we never wanted for anything. We never knew what it was like to not have three meals a day, to not have new clothes when we needed them. You worked six days a week, gone before I got up to go to school and back home at nine or ten at night. You were never out drinkin’ it up with the boys like I do. You had only Sunday off and you never failed to take us somewhere, to the beach or to the car races. We had a nice family vacation every year in Ocean City. You taught me how to tell time and to tie my shoes. You bought me my first guitar. And I never said thanks for anything. Even though I spent the last few days of your life with you in the Hospital, I didn’t even tell you then.

So let me take this chance to say thanks to you Dad. I’m so sorry I didn’t say it while you were alive. And I’m sorry I had to post it on the internet, but considering Heaven must have an internet connection, it is the only way I figured you’d be able to read it. I can’t help but wonder if your goat that they stole got to heaven too?

Your Loving Son,
Chris