Father’s Day was always a big deal at my house. My mother made sure that no matter what else was happening in our sequestered corner of the planet, Dad got his proper due. We made handmade cards that said “I Love You, Dad”. We catered to him, joyously bringing him food and drink. Remembering those happy days is even more important now, since my siblings and I are survivors of abuse.
Early in my parents’ marriage, Dad relegated raising the kids to my mother. Mom did amazingly well with a 10th grade education, no driver’s license, and no income from gainful employment. Over the years, my father grew increasingly distant from us. Whatever torments he endured as an orphaned child only fueled the emotional and psychic barrage he unleashed on his family.
We were stuck in the middle of the woods with few friends, and Dad cultivated an ongoing pattern of leaving us for days at a stretch to fend for ourselves. He knew we had little money, food, and other necessities, and no licensed drivers. Later, when my oldest siblings were licensed, he simply disabled whichever vehicle remained in our yard. He would then leave, the explosive slam of our battered door punctuating shouting matches that culminated in days of peaceful existence in his absence. If I had been asked as a child what three words husbands often tell their wives, I would have answered “I’m leaving, Jen!”
His rages developed like storms. The dark clouds gathered days before the rain fell. I remember one tempestuous front blowing through. The arguments had been escalating unabated. Many of the battles centered around the lack of food in the house, or us kids needing clothes, or his complaints about the high phone bill or utility bill. This time I think it was the lack of food.
After he (inevitably) left, Mom went to the freezer and pulled a whole hog’s head out. Now, I’m not sure why we had one, but there it was in all its glossy-eyed, hairy eared glory. Mom placed it in the oven, seasoned well with salt, pepper, and vinegar. A few hours later our oven birthed the gorgeously browned entree. Surrounded by garnishments like a Thanksgiving turkey, she placed it on a platter at the head of the table where Dad sat. He returned to find his end of the table beautifully dressed… knife, fork, napkins, and platter of crispy baked pig head!
I’m not sure what actually happened to the massive mammal. I do know that for a while afterward, peace reigned in our dysfunctional little household. It’s a memory I kept close through the next couple of decades of abuse. I carried that surreal sight through Mom’s two separations and reunions with him. His storms, though no less hurtful came further apart on the radar. Dad and I grew closer before he died, and I miss him fiercely. But this Father’s Day it’s the cold sad eyes of that hog that I see when I remember him.