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Share what you can spare
Monday, September 13, 2010 at 07:44PM 
My father perished from the earth forty-two years ago today, on Friday, September 13, 1968. He was one month and three days shy of his thirty-eighth birthday.
Although I grew up referring to Blanchard Guy McManus as "my real dad" to put distance between him (and me) and the sorry bum my mother elected to assume that role during my formative years, in truth he is barely real to me at all.
I have no memories of the handsome pilot who abandoned our family when I was two years old. I have no stories to tell you of his exploits. Except for genetic material, I have nothing he gave me.
If you can imagine standing high above a teeming city and looking out over miles of pitched rooftops, all the way to the edge of marked territory and maybe even curving a little bit into made-up land, nothing but rooftops as far as your eye can see, those would be the memories most people have of their fathers.
My landscape is empty clear to the horizon and back. Abandoned children wander aimlessly there. Sometimes I join them for a game of What Might Have Been.
What I do have is some stuff that came in a box left to me by my paternal grandmother upon her death in 1983.
Included is a creamy white military sash my father wore (complete with appliques and a medal), his Certificate of Election from Arizona Boys State (1949), a few business cards, and a couple of old pictures.
There is a yellowed invitation from Bryan Air Force Base to witness my father's graduation from Air Force Pilot School on August 1, 1953. Time travel, anyone?
There is the section of newspaper which contains the gruesome story of the airplane crash that took my father's life fifteen years and six weeks after that happy day.
Except for the larger photos, which I framed and hung on the wall, all of the above fits into the well of a small curio table with room left over for lots of other family memorabilia.
Like the round flat gray-white blob of cement my mother's Uncle Harold made wherein he planted my two-year-old feet, then took a matchstick and poked into the still-wet material the letters of my name … only in his haste to finish he left out an N and it forever reads JENY 1959.
There is a small candy dish that belonged to my mother's mother, and a snapshot of my then-young Mamaw wearing a fur coat and an enigmatic expression.
There are snippets of poetry -- both original and famous -- typed on onionskin paper long ago by my father's mother.
There is the birth announcement my mother sent to her mother-in-law on the occasion of my appearance on the scene.
I put some antique blocks in there a long time ago, just for wit. They spell M-E. Plus I have some other random ones that don't make words but they fit with the overall scheme.
Oh -- I also have a piece of paper on which, three years ago, I scribbled the precise location of my father's grave: Pierce Brothers Valhalla Cemetery, 10621 Victory Boulevard, North Hollywood, Los Angeles County, California 91606, Lot 2, Section 228, Veterans Memorial Garden.
The man on the phone at the cemetery was very nice when I began to cry, telling me to relax and take my time.
I'd love to visit there someday and take a picture, maybe look the nice man up and thank him in person.
(If you're going to be in that neck of the woods, let me know. Maybe you could do it for me.)
I'm not feeling sorry for myself; really I'm not. I'm just reminiscing.
Problem is, I have nothing about which to reminisce. Each year I process that a little differently.
So ... since I don't have any memories of my father, would you share with me some of yours? Memories of your father, that is.
Even if you think I might know them already.
Not everybody all at once, now.
Reader Comments (7)
Jenny - I am so sorry that you lost your Dad at such a young age. The good thing is that you turned out great in spite of the absence of your Dad.
I was and still am blessed to have a wonderful, loving Christian man for a Dad. Your post is a reminder to me, not to take him for granted.
Oh Jenny, I want to cry for you. My Dad was a rock. He got two girls, just like your Dad. I think he always wanted a boy, but it was not to be. He taught me a lot of the things he would have taught a boy. I remember he used to have me organize his plumbing fittings, into elbows, T's, and couplers, and he took me on jobs with him. He taught me how to hang wallpaper and paint and mow lawns and ride a bike and plant a garden and speak my mind. My Dad died when he was 49, way too young, and I miss him every day. But I have a lifetime of good memories.
My hubby doesn't have many good memories of his Dad, who is, BTW, still alive. Yet he has managed to break the cycle and be a rock for his kids. I guess that's the best you can do, and it sounds like you provided one for yours.
I think it doesn't matter what memories you have of your dad or not. It's hard not to look for some feeling. I know I have grown to have a new respect for my dad since his death, just living with my very demanding mother. And I agree with your first commenter, you turned out great. I see by your blog what a caring and loving mom and grandmom you are. Look at your husband and what a wonderful dad he is. I only know the time he rescued your daughter when her car gave her some trouble, but I'm sure there are many other times he fill those shoes and walks the extra mile. Adopt your children's memories, they sound great.
I wish I had something profound to add. Instead, all I can express are my good wishes and my unbelievable admiration at how you were able to overcome and become a wonderful Christian woman who has impacted for the better everyone around her.
As for my father, he's my hero. As an adult, he's not the mythical, flawless figure I thought of him as when I was young, but he's still pretty darn good. I hope he sticks around for a long, long time.
So sorry about the loss of your father at such a young age. It makes me think of all the others out there like you who lost their fathers at such a young age either through illness or fighting in the military. Such sacrifices our children make along with the parents.
Debbie
I forgot about this http://nostalgic-nana.blogspot.com/2010/01/wisdom-of-father.html. Read the one after it too.
Oh, Jenny, I wish I could help more, but this is a sad, melancholy assignment. I do have memories of my Dad... I wish they were better ones. When I was little, I remember a couple of "sour singing" contests where he, my sister and I would try to sing as off-key as possible and see who could sing the worst. He played catch with us inside the house once or twice when our mother was gone. In his last few years of life, two of the times I was published in Reader's Digest, he called when he got his magazine and that's how I found out I'd been published. (I think the next day the letter and check came. Kinda weird). Most of the memories would not cheer you up, sad to say. And it's a shame, because I think he could have been a really great dad.