Hello, friends.
We had a super busy week this past one as G had her school drama club show on Friday and Saturday, which meant Tech Week for her, staying at school until 5:30 every day. The shows went well and she had fun, which is what counts. For me, I didn’t get to write this week or work on anything writing-related, but that’s okay. Recharging the ol’ batteries isn’t a bad thing. That means this week’s newsletter is a little late but it’s all good.
Trying to be a good dad this past week got me thinking about my own Dad, whose birthday is this coming week, so today’s essay is about him.
Welcome to the 165th installment of Gauthic Times, the newsletter about my writing, my life, and my father at 85. If you’re a reader who subscribes via Substack, my website, or Patreon, your encouragement helps motivate me. I’m not breaking any records but I’m thankful to have any audience.
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As I mentioned, I really didn’t do much in terms of writing or writing career this past week. I spent a few hours waiting outside the middle school for rehearsals to finish, which allowed me to finish reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, because I somehow never had it assigned in school and, sick of hearing the shocked gasp that I had never read it (despite owning two copies that I acquired over time), I read it. I’m glad I did. Wonderful novel.
I’m planning to do more research in marketing short fiction and preparing Project: Amusement Park for submitting.
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My father turns 85 this week. We almost didn’t get there. Covid and its effects almost took him. This past year was a big one for him as he moved from the apartment he lived in since October 1988. It was a little bumpy but he seems happy living a few doors down from us in our apartment complex. We definitely see him more. Not even the Blizzard of ’26 could stop that! Eighty-five, though. Damn.
Growing up, I wasn’t particularly close to Dad. I guess I was the typical Momma’s Boy. Mom and I had a lot more in common. We both had wild imaginations, both loved to draw, to read, to watch movies. We both had edgy senses of humor and would watch standup comedians together in the 1980s on HBO and Showtime, comedians I was probably too young to watch but who left an indelible impression on me. I would often join her as she lay reading in bed and would read as well, or her and I would talk about life, hopes, dreams, the past…whatever.
Growing up, I don’t think my dad understood me very well and I know I didn’t understand him. Nine years older than Mom, he seemed old for my entire life. He was always ready to tell you how much things cost when he was a kid and wistfully mention how things were easier. I thought it funny at times and—as the kids say now—cringe at others. But I always felt love from him. I could be the one person to get my otherwise fairly meek and mild father angry. As Princess Leia says to Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back, “You certainly have a way with people.” That’s me.
From the time I was 11 until around 15, Dad would take me a local comic book shop on Saturday mornings. I mean, every Saturday. I would go in, look around, buy something (or not), and then go. He’d either sit at a nearby greasy spoon drinking coffee at the counter or sit in his car or truck and look at publications that featured cars for sale. Saturday mornings was when he did the housework, vacuuming the apartment and such but he’d take an hour break to bring me to the comic book store.
He was the one who primarily brought us to the park. If a grow-up would take time to play a little, he’d be the one to do that. Mom was good for coloring, reading, and drawing. Dad was good for running, playing, and going places (Mom didn’t drive, so that sort of makes sense).
It really wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized just how much Dad had influenced me. His influence was a quiet one. Mom could be a force of nature. Loud, domineering, verbose. Dad was quiet, relaxed, and showed more than told. And it wasn’t any sort of image of manhood that kept him that way, it’s just his nature. He didn’t hesitate to say he loved us or to give us a hug and kiss. I will still get a kiss from him and return it without hesitation.
I began to see a lot of him in me and I use him as a model for a good father. He’s selfless and I’m selfish, so I try to balance the two. My joke of turning him into a cowboy became a Thing with me and I’ve used him as a basic template for a character I’ve named Gabby Ray, taking the Gabby from the old character actor in many westerns, Gabby Hayes, and combining it with my father’s name, Ray. I draw caricatures of him and use Gabby Ray as an example for character building in my classes. If the dude ever went out in public wearing a brown cowboy hat, there’s a good chance he’ll be recognized by students past and present.
Unfortunately these days he doesn’t really go out much. He’ll go for drives, a pastime he’s always enjoyed, but because of COPD and pulmonary fibrosis, he can’t really handle stores or going other places, not without help. This week I’ll take him to get his taxes done. That’ll be a big outing.
He’ll be 85 and has spoken often lately of not being around much longer. I always poopoo him but the reality is that his watch is winding down. He knows he’s loved, though, and that means a lot.
Last week, I was showing him a silly picture I took of myself at the dentist and telling him the story about it, making him laugh. I’ve been pretty good at making him laugh the last several years, something I tried so hard to do when I was growing up. He took a breath and said, “You should’ve been a comedian, you tell such funny stories.”
The inner nine-year-old exploded with pride and joy. I could almost feel Mom slapping me on the upper arm and hear her say, “See? I told you.”
Eighty-five years. Even now, he teaches me how to be a Good Man.
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Gautham: Bill Gauthier.com 
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