Harleys and Highways

The hardest part of Mom’s passing was going through all the old family albums with my younger sister Jenny and deciding how to divvy up the photo collection. Ten years and a different father lessened the task somewhat, but she wanted some of the pictures of our shared step-brother, Noel. Most of the pictures predated her and featured both Noel and I living the dream of Colorado Mountain Boys. Our ten-acre horse ranch was on the side of Sugarloaf Mountain, just outside Boulder. The rustic log cabin and steep, wooded terrain we called home are the bedrocks of postcard-quality Colorado mountain living. Quite a few of the album photos show just how awesome of a rough and tumble childhood we had. 

Jenny’s dad turned into a monster though. His violent alcoholism was the stuff of nightmares. Those lingering memories form a foundation of the sobriety I’ve enjoyed for almost twenty years . Sadly I’m the only family member who’s recognized that alcohol is our family disease. You’d think Mom would have seen it but instead she leaned into her own consumption. She’d even throw monthly birthday parties for the dog just to ease the guilt around getting shithoused on Tuesdays. The doctor warned her that the booze was making her cancer more difficult to treat but she just couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. Old tricks for old dogs.

What I noticed flipping the album’s glossy pages is that my own father only appears in photos for only the first two years of my life. There’s a few pics of the two of us when I’m a diapered baby, and he’s wearing those late seventies-era jean shorts cut so short you’d think he’d be lewdly dangling out of them. There’s another pic of me in a walker with him squatting down next to me. He’s smiling in that one, noticeable through the patchy beard he was sprouting. There’s another one of me wearing just a diaper and I’m painting the house. I’m covered in paint, and he’s in the background laughing. The beard is a bit more substantial in this photo.

So why did he go? Not long after these photos were taken he joined a biker gang and rode his Harley off into the sunset. I’ve spent years wondering why he skipped out, and I’m reminded of how much abandonment hurts every time I look at my own kids. The fucker just up and left. How does a father do that? He was smiling in the pictures! In every photo he seemed to love me. I think his need for a motorcycle was directly proportional to the thickness of the beard he grew, so I keep my face clean shaven as a protest.

I’ve found out that abandonment is a lifetime penance. It’s with me in everything I do. I’m shaken every time I have to rely on someone, as I can’t wrap my head around the idea they’ll stay put and see life through with me, whatever that trial or tribulation may be. This goes for girlfriends, wives, work colleagues, and especially friends. I’m partly to blame though because I won’t let anyone get close. I can’t. There’s a psychological barrier preventing me from thinking I’ll be genuinely loved, appreciated, or valued.

I never let either of my stepdads be anything other than Mom’s Person. John, the first one, was a drunk and the second one is a wealthy golfer who I have absolutely nothing in common with. Both of these men reflect Mom’s life stages, not my own. John came along when she was still in her twenties and drugs and booze were fun. She established a whole group of mountain friends in similar circumstances so they’d all party together. It was fun, but destined to burn out. The fire raged for a while, but thank god it was extinguished.

Flipping a couple more pages brings up a picture of Dean, my best friend from high school. It’s a pic of when Mom kicked me out of the house a week before I graduated. Dean and I are standing in front of the dumpy apartment sublet we picked up from a couple of summering college students. Baby faced and barely eighteen, and each of us have a random girl in one arm and a beer in the other. Smiling. Stoned. It was a good summer. A great summer.

By the time this picture was taken, Dean and I had actually started a falling out. Just two weeks before, Dean had walked past me in our high school’s student center, as I was in the midst of a brawl with a big group of football players. The tight end had accused me of stealing his girlfriend and decided he needed to salvage his manhood by beating me up. He was a huge beast of a kid, and my 5’6” frame didn’t stand much chance. But I wasn’t about to back down. I had stolen his girl, and she was a beauty! So stupidly I accepted his challenge until his teammates jumped in. I was outnumbered and needed help, but I just saw Dean walk by like he was oblivious to what was going down. The crowd around the fight had circled like a pack of wild dogs, but Dean just strolled on by. We made eye contact too, so he knows I saw him. When I needed him most, he wasn’t there. 

Another album page turns, and another set of images pop up. It’s my first wife, when the two of us were newly married at the age of 25. We were just kids but we were in love. Or so I thought. Unfortunately she confirmed my suspicions that people are shallow. They present one image of themselves, and then change to reveal their true forms. She was no different. It honestly didn’t take long for her to show her true colors, that she felt vulnerable if she showed affection to anything but herself. We’d go out to bars and she’d pretend like she didn’t even know me. It was hard to watch and it took a steep toll on my belief that I’m worth being loved. I trailed after this girl for ten years, hoping she’d finally come to her senses and show me some genuine appreciation and affection. Instead, she found someone else and declared she just wasn’t coming home again. That was a month after our tenth anniversary. Her “feelings had changed,” and off she went.

I’ve decided this album needs some new pages. I’ve remarried, and my wife is the closest thing to a soulmate I think I’ll ever get. She’s demonstrated in both words and actions that she wants me and needs me, and she’s helped pull down the wall I’ve built around my heart one brick at a time. But that foundation will always be there, and I’ll keep the brick pile organized in case I need to quickly rebuild it. I’m trying so hard to believe in her but there’s always that voice that urges caution. 

I’ve carried this fear of abandonment with me since I can ever remember and I have a nagging feeling that I’ll take it to my grave. What I won’t do is saddle my own children with this burden of guilt, like my own father leaving was somehow my fault. Whatever his reasons were, I have always wondered if it was me. If I wasn’t good enough somehow. Maybe I could have been a better son, but I was only two years old. How is a two year old supposed to know how to keep their people, their caregivers, around? I’m sticking around for my kids and nothing will change that. Every time I see a Harley roll down the highway though, I wonder if the guy is headed home to his family tonight. Maybe his kids convinced him they’re worth coming home for. I must not have done that.