My dad died in 1989. He's had a wild and varied life, of which I know little. Here's what I know.
Impact of a father comes with life’s positives and negatives
My father taught me to read before I ever entered a classroom.
He was, I’m told, a smart man. Gifted even. A Sixties radical. There were many reasons to respect him.
But he was flawed and I never got the chance.
Even before he, passed away more than 10 years ago, I had few memories. I was a teenager at the time he died. He lived in San Diego. I was going to school in England.
When he died we were worlds apart.
It didn’t take very long before I realized I would miss him. I started to think that we, my brother and I, would not get the chance to show him what fine sons he had.
My father, Jim Stark, is a man I do not know. He continues to influence who I am, but I don’t know how.
I don’t truly know how much like him I am. My mother, Gayle, tells me I remind her of him at times, a way of thinking, or an expression. My smile.
These are compliments, she assures me.
There is a great photograph of my father with my brother and I, fruit stickers on our foreheads. He is tall, thin, red-haired and goateed. We’re sitting on his knees. We all have big satisfied grins.
Contrasting that vivid image, is the one that more frequently comes to mind unbidden. It involves blood hitting the walls and an angry man.
I don’t know where the anger came from and I don’t think I’ll be able to find out.
Though there are those alive who knew him, it will take many weeks and will power to talk to them about Jim Stark.
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