My Dad wasn’t overly emotional. If you knew him you might say he wasn’t emotional at all. Where others seemed to be compelled to ride the choppy waters of their feelings he was always calm, collected and analytical. I think a lot of men, particularly of his generation were taught to handle their feelings in this way.
I don’t remember my father ever telling me that he loved me. However, growing up I don’t remember ever having any doubt that he did love me. Why was that? Because of his actions? Maybe. He took care of me. He provided for me. But I think it was something more specific than that.
He valued knowledge, ideas, creativity. Those were the things that brought light into his life. He shared those things with me. My father also grew up in a small town and for him there were even less ways one could be exposed to new ideas or knowledge. Always fiercely independent and self reliant I don’t think he looked to teachers to learn. I think he looked to book.
I think books opened up his world. I think that books gave him the things that made his life rich. When I was little he didn’t read me Dr. Suess or other children’s book. He read me the books he wanted to read. Science, philosophy, technology. They were way over my head, but he would stop and explain when I had questions. Sometime I would just play in his study or in our yard while he would read to me, only understanding bits and pieces.
I don’t know if I realized at the time that he was giving me what he valued most in the world. I don’t know if he realized at the time that he was teaching me to associate knowledge, ideas, and the act of thinking with love.
How do I know my Dad loved me? Simple; he read to me.
