My mother was a single parent, strong-willed and intelligent, trying to make her way alone in a new country as a young woman with a child in tow — yours truly.
Since I was too young, and the other person in this story came later, there is no clear picture of what happened or why, but I found myself at the ripe old age of 4 in the German Orphan Asylum in Washington, D.C. I spent a year there before my mother met and married my father, but as we all know, a year to a young child is a lifetime.
I’m pretty sure my father wasn’t ready for an instant family, but that’s what he got when he married my mother. He got her and he got me: a little tow-headed German kid who didn’t speak English at all well.
He seemed cool, although at that age I didn’t know that word let alone the concept. The first time we met was at a playground; he pushed me on the swing and talked with me. He teased me about my German accent: von, chu, tree, I’d count, and he would say, “Three! It’s three!”
It may not seem kind by today’s standards, but he knew kids could be cruel to those who are different; I learned that how you speak is important if you want to fit in and assimilate into a new culture.
Not too long after that first meeting, he and my mother picked me up at the Big House and took me to our new two-bedroom apartment. It was a third floor walkup in a squat, flat-roofed, red brick building of 12 apartments in Langley Park, Md. It seemed bright and airy; especially coming after the shadowy, scary expanses of the neo-gothic German Orphan Asylum.
Instead of a dormitory of 20 or so other boys of varying ages, I had my own room. My stuffed animals, especially my tiger and bear, kept me safe at night. I had lots of kids in the neighborhood for friends, but I didn’t have to sleep next to any of them.
I was ecstatic.
After all that time inside, it took a while to figure out my new life on the outside. I had some real adjustments to make. To make this re-entry even more difficult, my mother had this new man in her life, who she felt should jump right into the deep end on parenting, especially when it came to discipline.
Everyone knows boys need lots of discipline. My father really didn’t have a choice, but he didn’t have much of a clue either, so he went with the way he’d been raised: old school. The school of occasional hard knocks and sore bottoms; of children should be seen and not heard and do what I say because I said so — or else.
It was also the school of crap rolls downhill and I, as the child, was pretty much always in the valley of the shadow. I learned to be alone with myself to avoid doing or saying the wrong thing in front of the adults. That’s not to say there weren’t times when, being a boy who needed discipline, I didn’t run afoul of the regime and find myself making that long lonely walk to the official place of punishment: my own, formerly safe bedroom. My tiger and bear had deserted me! I learned I could trust no one, especially that bear!
But I also learned there were consequences to the choices we make in life. If the rules have been laid out and we choose to ignore them, we are accountable for our actions. How this edifying life lesson was conveyed was not to my liking, but the message was abundantly clear.
By hook or by crook, by ago 10, I had pretty much absorbed the most overt of my father’s ideas about children and parenting. Most of them — and their application — served to convince me to do things differently if I ever became a parent. In that way, my dad taught me to be a better father.
There were other things, things my dad said. Always on the prowl for nuggets of adult wisdom and clues as to which way the wind was blowing, I paid close attention. Some of his admonitions have served me well over the years. The best, and most printable, example is, “Don’t believe everything you read or see on TV.” A man of his times, still.
Amazingly, looking back, our journey began when Dad was only 24. But, it is only recently that I have been able to clearly see this man I’ve known for 61 years. I’ve come to see, despite my decades-long rehashing of all his perceived parental shortcomings, his quiet acceptance, and even pride, in who I am.
Not once when I lashed out did he ever try to turn the tables to let me know I was no great prize as a son. He was always willing to listen to me vent about whatever was going on in my life; he still does.
As he and I both look to the nearing horizon, I finally understand the things my father taught me, not always through his actions or words, but always through his strength of character; the strength to take on the responsibility of that instant family while still in college; the strength to be a father to a young boy not his own; the strength to work hard every day, year after year, to take care of us, his family; the strength, despite domestic turmoil and his own unhappiness, to honor his commitment to my mother until her death.
By these metrics I fall far short of the man who raised me. While none of us is perfect, he’s as close as one can get to being a perfect example of what a father can be. I love you, Dad — Happy Father’s Day!
Van Elburg has been a resident of Williamsburg, James City County for more than 30 years. He is semi-retired from a multi-faceted business career and currently teaches classes on blues music for the Christoper Wren Association. He is a musician, writer and on-air personality and programming director for the mobile radio station, TheBluesAlley.com.
