Even though I lost my father 29 years ago, when he was much, much too young, and so was I, I’ll celebrate his birthday today.
I have silly private rituals that I don’t bore the rest of the world with, but which might, I think, make him smile. He understood that I was emotional, sentimental, a keeper of old flames, slow to relinquish people or feelings or memories. He loved me anyway. Love was his greatest talent, among many.
It’s impossible to do him justice in words, though I try sometimes, especially when I talk to my children about the glamorous grandfather they’ll never know. He looked like a movie star and loved everything about words. He was funny and smart and wrote poetry that could break your heart. He was elegant and wise and imaginative, Gothic and Irish and hopelessly impractical in many ways, like car maintenance or saying no to his daughters. When someone asked him playfully if my sister and I were spoiled, he answered, “If they aren’t, it isn’t my fault.”
He was already gone by the time I sold my first book, so I never talked to him about writing romances. Even so, he taught me most of what I know about heroes. (My husband taught me the rest, but that’s another blog!) When I realized that I’d be posting here on his birthday, I thought maybe I’d look at some of those lessons.
I have silly private rituals that I don’t bore the rest of the world with, but which might, I think, make him smile. He understood that I was emotional, sentimental, a keeper of old flames, slow to relinquish people or feelings or memories. He loved me anyway. Love was his greatest talent, among many.
It’s impossible to do him justice in words, though I try sometimes, especially when I talk to my children about the glamorous grandfather they’ll never know. He looked like a movie star and loved everything about words. He was funny and smart and wrote poetry that could break your heart. He was elegant and wise and imaginative, Gothic and Irish and hopelessly impractical in many ways, like car maintenance or saying no to his daughters. When someone asked him playfully if my sister and I were spoiled, he answered, “If they aren’t, it isn’t my fault.”
He was already gone by the time I sold my first book, so I never talked to him about writing romances. Even so, he taught me most of what I know about heroes. (My husband taught me the rest, but that’s another blog!) When I realized that I’d be posting here on his birthday, I thought maybe I’d look at some of those lessons. Heroes love smart, determined women. My parents’ relationship had its squalls, and a few hurricane-force winds, but there was never any question he admired her brains and spunk. Whenever I ran to him complaining about her, he’d sternly say, “Kathleen, your mother is a very intelligent woman.” It was his final word, the statement of unyielding solidarity.
Heroes love unconditionally. Whether you’re being a fool, or looking a fright, the real hero thinks you’re wonderful. He encourages you to be your best, but he knows that it’s when you’re at your worst that you need him the most.
Laughter conquers all. My father enjoyed high-brow jokes about Antigone or Hamlet, but he also tossed out idiot puns and limericks. He loved to laugh, and he frequently advised that, when things were bleak, a little “gallows humor” would go a long way.
Brains are attractive. Most of my friends had crushes on my dad, though he was an “old man” compared to the boys they dated. But a knowing spark can make even wrinkled eyes shine. An agile mind is as appealing as a buff body any day.
A real man isn’t afraid to look soft. He’s not afraid to read poetry, or go to the theater, or sit by his sick daughter’s hospital bed all night. He may play tennis or argue court cases aggressively, but his self-esteem is resilient enough to be tender without feeling weak.Courage is a superpower, and life is going to require it. My father met setbacks with dignity, suffered cruel losses without breaking, and even faced his final, difficult illness without uttering a single complaint. Because no man can promise you a perpetual rose garden, I learned that it’s best to choose one who knows how to handle the thorns with grace.
Are the heroes of our novels perfect? Of course not. And neither was my father. But I’ve never written or fallen in love with a fictional hero who didn’t possess those fundamental qualities. And I’ve fallen in love with many—Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, Margaret Mitchell’s Rhett Butler, Georgette Heyer’s Duke of Avon and his Devil’s Cub, Dorothy Dunnett’s Francis Crawford, Daphne du Maurier’s Max de Winter. (Well, okay, Max de Winter’s sense of humor wasn’t his strong suit…)
I bet I’m not alone. I’d love to hear about your father, too. What did he teach you about heroes? Post here, or, if you’d like to share it with my eyes only, write me at KOBrien@aol.com.
