Miserable, Eternal September: A Memoir
September is just a month - until it isn't. Every year, I am reminded. Every September, comes the breakdown of winter, the birthplace of spring for my antipodean existence, and the name of the month in which my Father died, so many years ago. It was the seventeenth.
As a child, I would tell you that I didn't have a positive relationship with my Father. Next year, it will be twenty years since I got that phone call.
My old(er) hand, holding the last known photo I have of me and my father, together. I think I was sixteen or seventeen.
Who was he? I remember him always in motion, always working. He was the breadwinner, but to me, he was just perpetually absent. A fitter and turner with hands good enough to build anything or fix anything. We never turned a spanner together. I would always get in the way. The books and the electronics were for me, not for him. He loved motorsport and soccer, and he’d spend hours under a car or in the back shed, making or fixing something.
These were the things he gave his time to, the things he seemed to understand in much more depth than whatever fatherhood is meant to be.
He was married my mother, through the act of arranged marriage - a common practice in the Greek Orthodox religion of that time, and one that probably persists today. I don't see myself as religious, and I don't think that he was all that saintly, either. What I didn't know, until his funeral - was that he was married to another before my mother - but I have no half brothers or sisters sired as a result of that union.
I guess, he was damaged goods to the Orthodoxy, where people famously stay mad at each other for decades, dying instead of divorcing.
A man, a father, is always a child before he progresses through to life as an adult, however, and whenever that may end. He was born in 1965 in Cyprus, and came to Australia as a kid. I don't know much about his child hood. I know that when he met my mother, he drove a Renault, a hot-hatch of sorts, based on some sort of Rally Car.
When I was born, it was replaced by something "Sensible" - a Nissan powered six cylinder Holden Commodore, built for the Australian domestic market - the VH - to be exact - something which is now a classic, collector's item. It, like him, is now, too gone. Stolen, joyridden, and then found by police, burnt out in an industrial estate some days later.
A version of my father's car - Image source
Still, I remember the sounds of that car - the motor, the sound of its doors, and the texture of the fabric in the back seat. The smell of leaded petrol leaving the exhaust pipe. All those ephemeral memories - and, too, the cigarette smoke. My father smoked. It was the 90s - basically everyone smoked. I can't tolerate it. Everytime I smell a cigarette, it is a noxious pang of grief, and one that fills me with disgust and absence. Not only does it remind me of him - but it is a metaphor for shortened life, life that has quite literally, faded away, like the last embers of a cigarette in an ashtray.
He left my mother's home when I was about thirteen. They had some fights. He wanted more freedom. I don't blame him for it. She wanted another kid. I thought there was too much of an age gap. I'm still an only child, and will forever remain so. I don't know if he wanted another kid - he never really seemed to pay me attention or express me any real love - the way men often struggle to articulate, or demonstrate affection. It was worse then - I think it is better now.
I hope it is better now.
Anyway, some six years later, he was dead. Like I said earlier - it was September. It was my first year of University.
I had been enrolled in my undergraduate program in Visual Art, and whether it was the stressful environment of a university, a poor diet, or other influences upon my health, I found myself in hospital during the first break in study periods - not close to death, but having spent my entire time away from university in a hospital bed - that was a time when I started, I think, to get my relationship with my father back on track.
He had moved to Melbourne, 800 kilometres away from my birthplace, and was planning to come back to Adelaide to celebrate his 50th birthday. He had probably hoped to build a stronger relationship with me as I moved into an adult hood of my own. We never spoke of those things.
Then, one day when I was sitting at the computer - the phone rang. It was my father's sister - who I had not heard from (ever) - and she had news. "Steven, your father is dead." She told me the details, how he was found, and I was shocked. I won't go into details, it was too rough, but as I put down whatever I was working on for my university studies, from that moment on, my life was forever changed. I was father-less.
I remember little of the events that followed, of getting to arrangements, working with his side of the family which I never really had contact with - (I don't even remember the names of my Aunts) - and the funeral.
I think I remember carrying his coffin on my shoulder with the help of other men who I don't remember. I remember eating fish and chips at the wake. I remember riding in the limo with his family members. I remember the sloppy embraces and affections and apologies of strangers - and I remember the anger at them seeming to know him better than I ever had.
And then I remember being handed this book, by another stranger, and it says it all.
I didn't know I had a "god brother". I have a book, I have a September, and for however many more of them I may have left, I will remember him, and lament the adult relationship that I never will get the opportunity to nurture. I am now double the age I was when he was lost, and he will forever be waiting for his fiftieth birthday.
@holoz0r great post mate . Sorry to hear about your father’s passing . He was still very young at the time and it’s pissing off learning about how some people were closer to him than you . My father too is a generation passed who wouldn’t even know what class in school I was in. I think the entire generation whether it is Greek or Irish were all kind of odd in a way. My father was the youngest of 7 and he told me that the second youngest didn’t talk to him until he was 24. He asked him to be his best man and they are great ever since . My father asked him why he never spoke to him when they were children and Paddy just said he didn’t like not being the youngest anymore . Pack of weirdos . Like you I have my problems with the father . The only way we seemed to connect was through football which is why I am fascinated by football. My date was much more of a social butterfly than me and he can read a person very well. Surprisingly well actually but I too didn’t think I was first on his list of priorities . It’s kinda hard to swallow . Great to share . I think me and you are cut from the same cloth in a way and that’s why this fucking place put us together .
There's one element of religion that I respect, and that's the statement that "All men are brothers", and I definitely feel it with ya, particularly through our recent interactions.
Sorry to hear about your disheveled experience of being a son. I know that as a result of that experience, you'll be a good father to your kids. It just isn't an option not to be. I have never wanted kids, but that's not due to my child hood, its due to how fucked the planet is, but that's a story for another time.
The photo of me and my dad was from a road trip - the first thing we did together (and the closest thing we did together) as me being a "near adult". I remember us swapping CDs in the car, and bonding on the 6+ hour drive to a caravan park on a humid riverside tourist place.
I'd put Metallica in, and he'd complaint they were just copying deep purple. Then we'd play Deep Purple, and find common ground over Pink Floyd, then he wanted to listen to Dire Straits. After that, I don't remember.
Well one thing for sure. He's musical taste was better than yours. He won't be turning in his grave at Florence. 🤣
Absolutely, I definitely favoured his collection of vinyl and tapes over my Mother's.
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Cheers lads .
This must have been difficult to write. What a shame that he died so young.
September is also a bittersweet month for me, it's the same month my mom died (1 year ago) and my best friend of 20+ years (6 years ago).
Thanks for sharing this touching story. The book from your "god brother" with the note is quite a powerful memento. Hopefully, it brings you some measure of peace knowing your father was proud of you and boasted of your achievements.
I'm sorry about your dad and that you had to got through this. Some people don't know how to handle kids, don't know what to do with them. It hurts, I know, but look at the bright side. At least he did not abuse you (verbally, or physically) as so many do, even these days. You need to try to let it go as nothing can change the past and he took the answers to your questions to his grave. You can't change the past, but you can change your future. They say time heals the wounds, but it's not true. It can make some wounds hurt less, but what can make you feel better is your own self. Accept it, put a lid on it and that's it. I know, easier said than done. I know.
Losing your father is a poignant experience, especially so young, and with such distance many fathers affect our recollections can elude a sense of closure. My sincere condolences.
Thanks!
he died young, yet he doesnt look young on that photo.
i love the way you described the pain you feel, i always have that question in mind on how people died, does it help you to care more for your present connections ?
are you close to your mum ?
it seems our vibration brings events we have a hard time to understand and its also hard to let go or replace the memory with another one.
This was beautifully written, and a great tribute to your father and the strained relationship you had. It is a shame things could not have been better. I will see that this is cross-posted to the HiveMemorialForest, a community for memorial tributes to people & pets we have lost. Thanks to @wesphilbin for bringing your fabulous post to my attention. ❤️
What a touching story. The text in the book must give you a mixed feeling. It must be nice to read that he was proud, but you might rather wanted him to tell you directly.
I see a lot of resemblance with my father. Although my father is still alive, I do see the same pattern. My father always worked while my mother was mostly at home taking care of us kids; the traditional family. We didn't have a lot in common except liking computers.
When my mother died, we lived together in the same house for a couple of years, but even then we didn't really talk a lot. I was a teenager and just lost my mother and my father isn’t someone that expresses his emotions a lot, let alone talk about it.
I can't remember he every told me he's proud of me, but I just know he is.
They moved to the other side of the country, so we don't see them a lot (although the two hour drive isn't even that far). We just don't have that bond.
I myself tried to do things different. When the youngest was born I started working one day less. I was really lucky this was possible financially and my employer allowed me to. I was able to spend a lot of one on one time with them. This really increased my bond with both my kids. I tell them I'm proud of them, that I love them and I still kiss them goodnight even though they are 14 and 16 now.
But times are different now then 30-40 years ago, so I don't blame him for anything. It's just how life goes.
Your September, my February...
I'm sad to learn that your father-son relationship wasn't a wholesome one. It seems that your father was more of a hard-working salt of the earth kind of guy, while you took up on a more creative, fantasy and philosophy driven path...
What resonated with me most is the smoking. My dad never smoked - we were the only two non-smokers. But my mom and siblings (mostly mom thought), their smocking was/is so hard to tolerate. Its been a point of friction between us always. I see the damages the cigarettes left on their health, the ashed-up smoking patios. I can never stick around for too long.
90s...
Thanks, man, for sharing this story... It was different in the 90s, and I can attest that I had a similar (or no) relationship with my father... Times were different, connections weren't made, and even in adulthood, it's hard to "re-connect"... In the end, being a father today, it's different, but in a way, the same... Despite not telling "those words", we know that they were there for us, in their "specific" way...
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It hurts that things take a different turn just when it begins to get better. Sorry for your loss. Now it is your turn to be there for your son.
!PIMP
Sorry about your father. The memories will always be there. Most men back in the days are taught not to be expressive because it could mean weakness. Even though he didn't say the words written on that book directly, I'm sure he was really proud of you.
Atleat you know better. You will be a better father and build a strong bond with your children, something you didn't have with your father.