MY DAD WAS CHIAROSCURO MADE FLESH
Chiariscuro is an Italian term that kind of means light-dark. Wikipedia says it is a term in art for a contrast between light and dark. The term is usually applied to bold contrasts affecting a whole composition, but is also more technically used by artists and art historians for the use of effects representing contrasts of light, not necessarily strong, to achieve a sense of volume in modeling three-dimensional objects such as the human body.
I have been thinking about my Dad a lot lately . . . his birthday was yesterday, June 15th. He would have been 86 years old if alive today. He passed away 12 years ago to pancreatic/liver cancer and sometimes it seems like it's been so long since I've seen him, other times I can shut my eyes and feel his big strong bear hug and it seems like it was just yesterday when we talked.
He was a strong personality and made a permanent "indent" in my life, for sure.
Control is a key word when thinking of my Dad. He kept control on all fronts. It was always important to him and I think that was part of the reason he never drank alcohol; he wanted to be in total control of his faculties at all times. I have to say, he was definitely one of those guys you would think of as master of their own fate. Some of his family are like him in needing to exercise a great deal of control over their own lives and those of their families and it looks like I inherited that need from Dad or learned it from him. It's something I think about and want to work on overcoming because control is really a lot of hype and illusion. We have little control over the most important things in life: health and love and death. You just do your best and try to be your best and hope for the best. After that, God's plans, your choices and your faith is the only thing that stands between you and any of it.
Although my Dad's formal education stopped with the GED he got in middle age, he was smarter than anyone I know. I think using his smarts was another way of controlling situations. I got my curiosity from him, but definitely not his innate brilliance. He was always challenging himself with puzzles or quizzes or those MENSA tests. His IQ was above 145--I know, because I saw the test results. I was always proud of having such a smart Dad, but at the same time it was a burden, too. How can anyone measure up? He did everything so well--from athletic endeavors to his applied craftsmanship to whatever he decided to do. He was a skilled carpenter and found the work came easily to him, but I wondered sometimes if it was enough of a challenge for him.
He learned to fly late in life, but it was a real joy for him. Being in the air in a plane was the one place he felt truly free. But there again, my brother, a pilot, too, tells me that even in the air, Dad did things his way. Being smart made him stubborn and a little impatient with those who couldn't keep up--or worse yet, didn't live up to his standards. It's kind of understandable; if you're the smartest person in the room, why would anyone argue with you? It seems a bit pointless. And that's how I felt about it growing up. No sense in trying to challenge Dad about anything. He just didn't hear it.
My Dad was also surprisingly tender-hearted and giving, concerned for others less fortunate and always ready with support in the way of time or money for his family or his community. I believe he gave more than anyone truly knows. I witnessed many times as he helped someone stranded on the road or family members out of work or in difficult straits. A member of our community came to me after my Dad died and told of how much money he gave to the annual coat drive at Christmas and said he always told them he didn't want anyone to know that he gave or what he gave. Now, this is a man who wouldn't buy any of us Christmas presents because he believed the focus of Christmas was all wrong, but was willing to secretly give money for a good cause he believed in. He wasn't stingy, he was merely principled. And his principles were all that mattered!
I learned first-hand how to deal with terminal illness from watching my Dad in his last year. He was in pain and suffered indignities and inconveniences, but he still visited his friends and family and went out and did things, when a different sort of person would have stayed in and felt sorry for their circumstance. There was none of that with my Dad. He was always in forward motion.
Even when I broke down and sobbed on his shoulder and told him I didn't want him to leave us, he didn't let himself wallow in pity or cry even a little bit, although I am certain he was sorry to leave a life he so clearly enjoyed. He had lots of plans for the future and a walk through his mechanic/wood shop would testify to that. While he prayed to be healed, he seemed to accept that this was how it was going to be. In life he was mostly unyielding, but in death, he opened up his arms and let it all pass through without trying to control it. That was the most amazing thing of all and I learned from him how to die "right."
So, twelve years have passed and a day hasn't gone by when his influence hasn't shown up in my everyday life. I think of him often. Sometimes with tears, but mostly with respect and a new-found understanding that fathers are human, not supermen. (Although my Dad was kind of close!)
Like most people, he was a complicated mix. He was chiaroscuro: an interplay of light and dark. And he made a beautiful composition.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
