In the play
“I Never Sang for My Father,” by Robert Anderson, the main character Gene (the
son) and his father, Tom, are looking at old pictures and reminiscing. In the
scene, the father’s love for his son is clear, when Tom asks about a tune that
Gene used to sing for him as a boy. Gene confesses that he never sang the tune
for his father, meaning he only sang it for his mother, but Tom recalls
otherwise. In the argument that follows, Gene reveals that he plans to move to
California rather than stay in New York and care for Tom. Gene never sees his father again, and he
never sings for his father.
My father
encouraged and sometimes pushed me into sports. My older brother was a natural
athlete. He excelled at hockey, played on the high school baseball and basketball
teams, and even today his golf score is in the eighties. For birthdays and
Christmas, my father gave me sports equipment and what I called “family
gifts.”
I twisted my
ankle on the ice skates, never hit the hoop with the basketball, and I only
played football because my dad took me to the signup and attended all the
practices and games. I never learned the football plays, and as a tackle, it
didn’t matter. The snorkel and swim mask, snow skis, and a backpack were gifts
I used. The rubber raft, rowboat, the table hockey game, and pool table were
fun, even if family gifts.
In junior
high, I placed third in an eighth-grade short story contest. My dad helped edit
my grammar and typed the story. I have
no idea what the story was about, and I don’t have a copy. I remember my
teacher, Mr. Amberg, asked me about the last line in the story; something about
sparrows on a telephone wire. I didn’t know why I had written the line or what
it meant. It is possible my dad not only
edited the story but served as a ghostwriter.
In college
my “A” in literature kept me reading. The prospect of a “D” in creative writing
suggested a writing career might be out. Therefore, I focused on books, alcohol,
sports cars, rock’n’roll, and girls. Oh, and the Science of Behavior. My older brother’s career in advertising made
sense to dad. My choice of Psychology and Philosophy, not so much.
I know my
dad was proud of my Ph.D. and my university teaching, but he never lost hope I
would be a writer. In 1977, dad asked me
to write a book review of a new science fiction novel. He was the feature
editor at the Detroit News, and I was an avid Sci-Fi reader. I enjoyed writing
the review and I could tell it pleased my dad. Subsequently, he had me review
the second book in a three-part autobiography by B. F. Skinner.
In
retirement, dad planned to write historical fiction about the French
Voyagers. He had done all the research and he had purchased a Royal typewriter.
The problem was he just couldn’t seem to get started. He had a pecked out a
first chapter on the Royal, but that was all he could manage. After years of
feature writing, he had writer’s block. I remember telling him how using a
computer had freed me to write and I mentioned I would like to write a novel
someday.
Dad said, “I
hope you do it while I still have connections in the publishing game.”
My dad never wrote his novel, and he didn’t live to see me become president of the California Writers Club, publish two business books, ten novels, a dozen short stories and poems, and have two 10-minute plays produced. I never played sports for my father, but I have written books in his honor and one day I will write his story of the Voyagers. I just wish I had his first chapter to help me get started.
