Of fathers two...

This is tough to write.

My older brother, Kenneth, I've just found out, has been put in the hospital. That's not what makes this tough to write, mainly because my brother's ills -- medical, emotional and otherwise -- are virtually all self-inflicted.

My brother and I have never really been close. He is about five years older than I, and he left home when I was 12 or 13.

But in those years we were together, sharing a bedroom, we fought often. Not at my initiation, but his. Because he was older and bigger, I always suffered the worst of it. He preyed on me. He seemed to take great pleasure in pounding my kidneys, avoiding the face, so as to leave little evidence. The fights were so numerous that a neighbor, who often had to come to my rescue and break us apart, told my mother, "I can't keep doing this." Thankfully, that neighbor did.

And, yes, once, he threw a bayonet at me. Deliberately. I was quick to avoid, and it stuck firmly, with a thud, into our bedroom door instead of me.

Not many people know of this. I doubt if he recalls given his current state.

When my brother finally left home when I was 12 or 13, I was more relieved than happy. But I was happy, too.

This is where fathers come in.

I've had two.

I didn't know Father #1 much or for long. He left us when I was a toddler. So, I didn't really know him, and I don't think he ever really knew me -- or even tried, for that matter. For a time, I recall us living with his mother, the beloved "Grandma Gibson," before Mom met and ultimately married Father #2. We settled in Norfolk, Va., and, for the following years, my brother and I (Kenneth more than I) would visit Father #1 (and his new wife and family) during the summers for some weeks.

During one such visit -- and I think my last -- my brother, Kenneth, scolded me when, talking on the phone to Father #2, I said, "Love you Dad." Kenneth chimed in, saying, "He's not your dad."

And that, I think is the key. Kenneth was always resentful of Father #2 (and, perhaps, our mother for not sticking with Father #1), even though Father #2 didn't even know our mother during the ultimate breakup.

But Kenneth was always trying to reconnect with Father #1, ignoring, aggressively, Father #2.

It wasn't until Kenneth was in his mid-50s that he ultimately came to the same conclusion that I had come, at age 12 or so, regarding Father #1. Kenneth had sold his house in New Hampshire to start a financial consulting business (that went bankrupt, which is telling in itself) to be near Father #1, who'd retired to South Florida. Father #1, for reasons unknown, didn't show much interest, Kenneth ultimately and reluctantly admitted to me.

The ultimate insult -- to him, not to me -- likely came when Father #1 eventually died. In the obituary, it listed two children -- from the second marriage, not the first, meaning no mention of Kenneth Wayne Gibson and Malcolm Douglas Gibson, his first-born children.

My dear wife, Joyce, was livid. I was not. Father #1 was never a father to me -- and he had many chances to reconnect had he wanted: my induction or discharge from the Army, my marriage, my graduation from university (twice), the birth of my children (his grandchildren, by the way), my many career moves and promotions, or the 50 or so intervening birthdays. All were apparently ignored.

Being a father is what Father #2 did. He was there for happy moments, and hurt. He was honest, and true, and caring, and funny, and helpful (as Kenneth should well know, with Father #2 bailing him out more times than I can count with never a sincere thank you). And loving, always.

Once, when I was visiting Father #2 in the hospital, the doctor walked in, looked at the two of us, and said, "That's gotta be your son. You two look just alike."

"Sorry," I said, "he's my step-dad, but thanks."

He likely thought "Yeah, right! Bet they [meaning Mom and Father #2] were fooling around," not knowing that my Mom didn't even know Father #2 when I was born!

But I didn't care. I was proud, proud to be just like him.

Had Kenneth put a little bit of effort into Father #2 instead of Father #1, perhaps he would have been better, too, would have had a better life, would have had more of his many children be as thankful as I was when the doctor made his observation.

I just wish Kenneth Gibson would finally understand that. Perhaps all those self-inflicted wounds -- the reasons for five marriages, at least four of them failed, and all the financial and family disconnects -- would somehow heal or, at least, be less hurtful, to him and to others.

Then, perhaps, I could forgive him. Forgive him for the beatings, and forgive him for ignoring those he should not have ignored.
 

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P.S.: Shortly before the man I proudly call my Dad -- Father #2, Tommy Aurednick -- died in November 2012, he apologized, saying he wished he (and my mother, who always blamed and continues to blame herself for Kenneth's shortcomings) had done more to stop the beatings. No apologies necessary, Pops. Both you and Mom made up for it a thousand times over by simply encouraging me to be all I could be and loving me in all that I did. And for setting an example of fathering that I still try to follow every day.