My father was not a perfect man, I couldn’t have asked for a better dad, though. He’s been gone nearly eleven years now, and I still miss him every single day. I wish he could’ve known the man I have ended up with, he would have approved. I wish that he could have been there when I ventured into making my own music – that’s why my music name is Lisa Patric, it was his middle name. It’s an homage to the man who never made me feel like I was less than I should be.
Now, I have bittersweet memories of him as well, because he was in denial about the way my mother treated me – even though her family saw it clear as day. Unfortunately, he found out the hard way when I moved out, just how bad she could be. She blamed menopause, I call bullshit. She wasn’t menopausal when I was small and that’s where my earliest memories of her abuse are embedded. She’s just an angry, unhappy person, and I have learned I am better without her in my orbit.
All of my best memories of childhood were ones he was part of. He nurtured my inner earth child, and taught me to treat nature with the respect it deserves. He taught me the love of books, especially poetry, as well as cartoons, British comedy, and Star Trek. At forty-three, I wonder what he would think of the person I’ve become. I hope that he would be proud of me, and that he would encourage me writing as much as he did when I was a kid. Most of all, I wish that I could listen to his rumbling voice again, to have another long talk about the meaning of life and what’s beyond those lights in the sky under a blanket of stars by a campfire. My bookish ways, my geekiness, they all come from dad. He was sort of an unintentional nerd, and I am far more like him than I am like my mother. I guess despite biology, I took on the traits of the parent who adopted me, instead of the biological one. I owe everything good in myself to him.
I’ve figured it out, Dad. The answer is 42.