A Streak Of Mercy
April 14, 2017 at 6:16 p.m.
By -
A few years ago, I read two different letters to this newspaper from Julie Goon, who had written some very touching comments about her late father, Junior Goon.
I never knew these people, but can only imagine the love and decency of such a family and relationship.
I also knew that there is no way I could ever write such a tribute about my own father.
This past week, I found a voicemail from my mother telling that my dad had passed away.
One thing is sadly true: I have cried bitter tears over the deaths of family pets in this lifetime, but have not shed one tear over Dad.
Throughout his lifetime, my dad hurt a great many people. On the second visit that my mom, sister and an aunt made here to Lancaster, I told Mom that “Every life he ever touched, Dad ruined them.”
He was a truck driver most of his life, but seemed to have delusions of grandeur. He was jealous of men who had successful careers and beautiful women in their lives.
My mom may not have been a swimsuit model, but she was/is a pretty lady. Why she put up with all of Dad’s abuses, cheating and ignorance, I don’t get it. (They divorced in 1982.)
On her last visit here, I asked Mom, “Why did you stay with him?” Her answer: “I thought you kids needed a father.”
My reply was: “I would rather have grown up without a father than to have that son of a b----!”
On his only visit here in 1997, in a conversation about their marriage, Dad told me that my mom considered a divorce in 1975, but she allowed some idiots in a church we attended to talk her out of it. My parents still owned the house we moved from (in Bibler Addition back then), and she considered moving us back to that house. (It was sold later.)
I have always hated their house and Dad’s parents’ farm — always!
The last time we every spoke (between two and four years ago), Dad said, “I don’t know what I ever did to make you kids turn against me.”
Truth be told, I have at least 50 years of pent-up hostility I could throw in anyone’s face. Yet somehow a streak of mercy exists within.
I don’t miss him, but I don’t hate him either. Go figure.
William Gerald Smith
Lancaster, Pa.
A few years ago, I read two different letters to this newspaper from Julie Goon, who had written some very touching comments about her late father, Junior Goon.
I never knew these people, but can only imagine the love and decency of such a family and relationship.
I also knew that there is no way I could ever write such a tribute about my own father.
This past week, I found a voicemail from my mother telling that my dad had passed away.
One thing is sadly true: I have cried bitter tears over the deaths of family pets in this lifetime, but have not shed one tear over Dad.
Throughout his lifetime, my dad hurt a great many people. On the second visit that my mom, sister and an aunt made here to Lancaster, I told Mom that “Every life he ever touched, Dad ruined them.”
He was a truck driver most of his life, but seemed to have delusions of grandeur. He was jealous of men who had successful careers and beautiful women in their lives.
My mom may not have been a swimsuit model, but she was/is a pretty lady. Why she put up with all of Dad’s abuses, cheating and ignorance, I don’t get it. (They divorced in 1982.)
On her last visit here, I asked Mom, “Why did you stay with him?” Her answer: “I thought you kids needed a father.”
My reply was: “I would rather have grown up without a father than to have that son of a b----!”
On his only visit here in 1997, in a conversation about their marriage, Dad told me that my mom considered a divorce in 1975, but she allowed some idiots in a church we attended to talk her out of it. My parents still owned the house we moved from (in Bibler Addition back then), and she considered moving us back to that house. (It was sold later.)
I have always hated their house and Dad’s parents’ farm — always!
The last time we every spoke (between two and four years ago), Dad said, “I don’t know what I ever did to make you kids turn against me.”
Truth be told, I have at least 50 years of pent-up hostility I could throw in anyone’s face. Yet somehow a streak of mercy exists within.
I don’t miss him, but I don’t hate him either. Go figure.
William Gerald Smith
Lancaster, Pa.
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