What We See When the Sun Sets

My father was a professional soldier. He served two tours in Korea and two in Vietnam. He was Elvis Presley’s Sergeant for Elvis’ first three days in the Army. As a personal favor to my father, Elvis telephoned my Mother to say hello. We have personal photos and an autograph from those days. My father was in the field when he received news of my birth. I was one year old (or nearly) before he ever placed eyes on me. I sometimes think what a difficult thing that must have been. He returned to Vietnam for his second tour in 1970. He told me years later that the Vietnam of 1967 and 1970 bore no similarities. A palpable difference as that between night and day. The mood was different. The men were different. How painful, I imagine, for a man with such a love of country. We talk often of the wars and the nuances thereof. But only once did we discuss those vast differences he met upon his return overseas. It is not something on which I press him.

I often get the sense he regrets being just too young to have served in World War II.

My memories of childhood are exaggeratedly vague. But I recall one evening after dinner, being outside and seeing my first brilliant sunset. The air was alive with reds and blues and new shades of grey. I ran inside and said, “There is something wrong with the sky!” My father quickly went outside to investigate. Smiling, he explained sunset to me. With the Missile Crisis just a decade behind us and nuclear possibilities forever looming, I can only imagine what went through his mind when I rushed into the house. And only now, with my own young son to tend, can I grasp the relief he must have felt at what he found and could then share.

My father and mother officially went their separate ways when I was four. It was for the best. Our time together was limited to occasional Sundays and phone calls. He would pick me up in his cobalt blue 1964 Mustang and we would visit his friends or just drive around. At a young age, I was introduced to the bar scene. I met wonderful, scarred people who helped shape the man I would become. Snooky’s. Fred’s. The Rendezvous. I was embraced by a family of hard drinkers and dangerous men. I have yet to be so decently treated as I was then. And from those early encounters, I developed a love of bars, dives, and haunts that I harbor still.

My father bought me a mini-bike. A motorcycle. And, later, my first car. He took me to motocross races and bought me hotdogs and Cokes.

From him, I acquired a love of boxing. No other sport demands so much from its participants or commands so much from its audience. Brutal men doing beautiful things. It is grace and precision, fear and fearlessness, science and mythology. Much like war. Nothing I have experienced is as emotionally taxing as a good fight. When I was fourteen, my father flew me to Chicago where, at the Rosemont Horizon, we saw Mike Weaver defeat James “Quick” Tillis to retain the Heavyweight title. And we saw Marvelous Marvin Hagler decimate Mustafa Hamsho. It would take over forty stitches to piece together Hamsho’s face. It was beautiful and horrifying. I have never forgotten it.

In college, when I grew my hair to my ass and had four earrings, my father never judged me. “It looks good on you,” he said. And he was sincere.

He took me with him to Nebraska and Colorado to visit family. I accompanied him to his mother’s deathbed. And in my youth, I selfishly concentrated on my own sadness, not realizing what he must have been going through. That bothers me when I think about it.

My father is a surprisingly sensitive man. So what I have often attributed to being raised by my mother and two sisters—my own deep sensitivity—is just as much a product of him. He is deliberate and methodical with a grand baritone voice. He is the best storyteller I have ever known—and I’ve known some good ones. His sense of humor is rich, raw, and blue. I owe him the debt of having the same.

I’ve seen him watch me as I interact with my own son and I know that he is pleased. That is a satisfaction that defies words.

On rare occasions, we get to sit down over a drink or a beer and we feel immediately at peace. I cut my whiskey with a splash of Coke. He is a purist and does not. Yet he does not criticize. I like to think that one day he, Emerson, and I will sit down together at a seedy bar and likewise share a drink. He is 75. Emerson is three. The math doesn’t work out—but I don’t allow myself to think about that. Instead I enjoy the now. The occasional visits, drinks, and lunches. The political discussions and reminiscences. The generosity shared between a father and son. The knowledge that we accept one another—good qualities and flaws alike. I like the fact that we like one another. That makes loving one another something more special than that which blood dictates.

And one day—probably pretty soon—I will sit down with my Boy outside. I will hold his hand in mine and we will look skyward. We will pause and be still. And together we will be in awe as the sun sets on another day.