Ray Weaver - A Fathers Heart

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ISBN: 978-1-4835819-9-6

For Sandy, Savannah and Justin

The Stories

A Father's Heart

When I was a young man, there were two absolute, unchangeable truths in my life. I was going to be a rock and roll star, and I was never, ever going to have any children.

Youve heard the one about making God laugh by telling him your plans?

Well, He mustve had some gut-busters at my expense because I have long ago passed the place in my life where anyone should even think of selling me a pair of leather pants, and I have now fathered one-third of a baseball team.

A rock star? Nope.

A father? Got me good there, didnt ya, God?

Sandy, my oldest daughter, was born on July 21, 1988 in Williamsburg, Virginia. Savannah, my little girl, was born on August 24, 1996 in Hillerd, Denmark. About 12 years after Sandy and four years after Savannah, and long after I presumed I was finished doing my part to populate the planet, God chuckled one more time and my son Justin came along.

Each one of my kids is special and magical in their own way, and as different as they could possibly be and still be considered part of the same genome. I hope some of that will show up in the stories that follow.

One reason I wanted to scribble this little bunch of stories was to stick up for dads.

The media these days delights in presenting fathers as bumbling stooges blessed with zero parenting skills and devoid of even basic social graces. Every week it seems like there is yet another stupid Dad show on TV. Even a brilliant book like Angela's Ashes looks at only the darkest side of fatherhood.

All dads are not idiots or drunken losers. In fact, I would submit that most of them aren't.

Full disclosure time.

I am divorced. My children have different mothers. Dawn is Sandy's mother, and Lotte is Savannah and Justin's mother. They are both wonderful women and moms, and, with occasional help from me, they are raising amazing children.

Finances and circumstances prevent me from spending as much time with Sandy as I would like toor should. Being on the road prevents me from spending as much time with Savannah and Justin as I would like toor should. The traveling and distances also places extra burdens on Dawn and Lotte and make me feel like a bad father.

Perhaps that is the real reason behind these little stories.

Chances are pretty good that I'll never be a rich man, so these pages may well be all I leave behind for my children. And wont they be pissed about that! But maybe, just maybe, they'll find something in here

Some of these tales are well-worn and cherished memories. Others are happening faster than I can write them down. All of them are true. Well, at least as true as A Father's Heart remembers them. My sharing these thoughts doesnt mean that I am setting myself up as some sort of Dr. Phil-ish expert about fatherhood or anything else, because, Lord knows, I am not.

Me, I am just a father. And I love my kids. I think that still counts for something in the big ledger.

Anyway, I sure hope so.

So, heres the idea. The stories are here to read, and the links that pop up at the end of some of them are to songs that have a connection to the preceding tale. You can certainly read the stories without ever listening to the songs, and vice versa, but I always have music on in the background when I read, so why not music that actually has something to do with what you are reading? The first song, Confession , is pretty self-explanatory. A father trying to come to grips with himself and his failures

Confession

Im not really proud, of everything Ive done,

to shake myself free when I got the urge to run.

Left some hearts broken, left some debts unpaid,

when I heard that highway call, or some other sad cliche

When they make whiskey a little stronger, highways a little longer,

I might really reach the place I feel no pain.

Til then I ask forgiveness for things I cannot change,

and pity on a prisoner, bound by his own chains.

Ive wasted a lifetime on passions sweet lies,

til I cant stand face-to-face with my own alibis.

Now the fiddler has his hand out, the piper stands unpaid,

and theres a child who bears the scars of each mistake Ive made.

When they make whiskey a little stronger, highways a little longer,

I might really reach the place I feel no pain.

Til then I ask forgiveness for things I cannot change,

and pity on a prisoner, bound by his own chains.

Im not really proud, of everything Ive done,

to shake myself free when I got the urge to run.

When they make whiskey a little stronger, highways a little longer,

I might really reach the place I feel no pain.

Til then I ask forgiveness for things I cannot change,

and pity on a prisoner, bound by his own chains.

(c) 2016 Ray Weaver/Morten Wittrock

William R. Weaver, Sr.

Before I start rambling on about being a father, I should probably tell you a little bit about my own dad. It's always easier to get a bead on somebody if you know a little about where they come from. My dad, William R. Weaver, Sr., was not a particularly well-educated man. Like a lot of men of his generation he had to quit school at 14 and go to work. He was, however, a smart guy. He had a shed-load of common sense, and he knew how to fix what was broken and keep stuff going long after it should have been hauled off to the nearest junkyard.

Later on in life, I was amazed to find out that he liked to read. Beyond the Playboy that he always stashed in his bottom drawer (I just knew, OK?), I dont recall ever seeing him with a book or a magazine around the house. And yet, when he retired from General Motors, stashed in along with his uniforms and his tools there was a box full of paperbacks that he read during his breaks in the can.

My dad. Digging The Exorcist. Who knew?

Dad liked good friends and loved a good joke, even a dirty one. He had no use for people that used foul language in front of women, but could turn the air a crackling blue when he was doing something around the house that wasn't working out to his satisfaction. The neighbors used to take their kids in the house when my dad was working outside.

Folks liked my dad and called him, as a compliment, "a regular guy".

Like Pap in Faulkner's 'Shingles for the Lord', my dad knew only one thing about work; when it wasn't done, it wasn't done, and when it was, it was. You used whatever means and tools you had to get the work done, and it was a man's job to turn a buck. No excuses, no bullshit, no matter what.

Along with his regular job, my dad cleaned wells, shingled roofs, hauled trash, fed hogswhatever it took to earn a poor man's dollar. Legend has it that he was out catching chickens on the cold November night I was born. Dad drove mom to the hospital in his old truck with the heat blasting and the windows rolled up to keep her warm. He didn't realize how rank he was with the smell of what comes out of the back end of hen. And I don't mean eggs. He simply couldn't understand why the simple act of having a baby was making his pretty young wife so sick to her stomach.

During the carpentry years, when winter and the snow came and there was no work swinging a hammer, he went door-to-door like an 8-year-old kid asking to shovel sidewalks.

Now, my dad could rip it up with the best of them in his younger days. He apparently settled down right quick (with the help of the occasional well-placed shot to the head from mom) when us kids started showing up. But, like many new fathers, he didn't give up without a fight.

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