Sins of the father, sins of the son...

In reflection I try to think of the times I was angry, disappointed, embarrassed, ashamed or otherwise upset by my father's actions.  My dad was a complex person.  He had such a capacity for love and compassion.  His attention to detail and obsessiveness when it came to his work, his craft was both enviable and infuriating.  Pat had a great gift for tempering his criticism with an impulsive impatience that would burn white and hot and go out quickly like magnesium...I have some of this, ok, I own this.  He worked as much as he could.  When he wasn't working, he was finding work.  His projects were varied.  One day he's paint a house, next week he'd be remodeling a basement.  In his spare time (what spare time?) he's hunt and fish and do the obligatory neighborhood possum extermination (he was really good at killing possums.  Don't worry, I have never eaten one, though he was quite an adventurous eater.  I remember he and Jess Wells recalling the time they ate deer brains.  They both had grimaces on their faces, so I didn't press the issue too far.  The truth that many people don't understand is that my father lived two lives, not concurrent lives, but consecutive.  As a child, my parents, members of the Portland Catholic Worker (GO PCW KIDS!!!) lived lives of service and ministry to the poor and homeless.  We and our friends/extended spiritual family opened our homes to people with nowhere to go.  We began the St. Francis Soup Kitchen.  The Wells', Jewett-Baranskis, O'Donnell-Iharas, Barnharts, Adler-Pruntys and the McNassars (along with many others that were active, tangential, integral and/or helpful)  In all of our phases and incarnations as a community of faith and service, we were a family.  We lived on "the block" on Alder Street in SE Portland, a communal background and (as I have stated earlier, I recall few details of my life) all I really remember other than running around the pool with Meaghen, Molly and Margo or a number of fistfights and instances of torture at the hands of my brothers is a complete sense of peace and acceptance, more than the normal bliss of childhood ignorance.  It was the peace that the innocent in the cradle of Utopia possess.  I realize now that much of that perception I held was purely naivete, but my father did nothing to dispel that notion.  He and my mother tried to foster it.  There was great hope behind the mission to serve.  There was great hope in humanity, hope in the future.  They struggled to ensure the world their children would inherit would be safe and filled with love.  They would protest global military aggression and lay their bodies across the tracks of the white train as it progressed across country, laden with nuclear warheads.  We were taught by example the value of every person and the challenge that Jesus gave every one of us to love the unlovable, feed the hungry, forgive the trespasser, accept incarceration as the price of a clean conscience and to be willing to place the needs of others before your own.
  I grew up understanding the value of simple living, with few extras, hand-me-downs in the dresser and government assistance to eat at times.  Through all of this, my dad was faithful to God and to his ideals.  Sometimes his loyalty was feverish, reactionary and a little over the top.  I remember watching the movie Forrest Gump and when Gump went to the Black Panther's HQ and saw Jenny's dickish boyfriend (Wesley) I thought "Hey, it's Dad!"  It wasn't so much the slapping Jenny around as it was the rage that was blamed on that sonofabitch Johnson and led to zeal.  Now I don't mean to impart to anyone, especially those that never met my father that he was in any way an evil or malicious person.  He was very good and his heart was full of love and copassion.  He was very good at showing that during his first life.  I remember him holding me in his arms, the faint smell of beer on his breath, and the bristle of his moustache as he would kiss me.  My dad was free with his love, a little prudish about sexual expression, but he was born in Iowa for Pete's sake.  He loved us each, individually and totally.  He struggled with Sarah at times, though I was never privy to what that whole thing was about.  There is a lot to explain in this short format, but there will be time for that later.  Needless to say, I loved my father and despite the normal Cat Stevens father and son crap that I went through with the man, I always knew he loved me, I never doubted it.  I understood him too, well at least in his first life.
  Like so many other things in this world, the Portland Catholic Worker community came to an end.  I was a kid so I never really got an explanation on that either.  It doesn't really matter other than the fact that as a result, we moved to Northeast Portland at a time in Portland's history when that was not necessarily a good thing for an incorrigibly innocent little honkey to be plopped down in the middle of a booming gang war.  Now, NE PDX is no, and never will be no Compton.  I get that.  Still, in the 80's, there was some shit going down.  It was a great lesson to learn that all people are created equal and that everyone deserves to be treated as a human and shown grace and compassion.  I just had to find out that not everybody else was taught these same lessons at their house.  After getting beaten up at school, beaten up at the park, beaten up on the front porch and chased down the street by two quite rotund girls that were intent on beating me up on the curb, I decided to take a personal inventory and reassess whether or not my world view was really working out for me.  I bring this pattern of violence (all of it unsolicited) as an obvious forshadow to the death of my father as I knew him and the beginning of his second life.  We had moved to our house on 17th and Killingsworth, the third and final house I lived in with my family.  We had been there for probably eight or nine years.  I think I was in seventh or eighth grade.  Things had been pretty good.  I mean my parents worked, my dad was in a good frame of mind.  The neighborhood around us was pretty rough.  We knew most of the families on our block and we were all tight, but our block was an island, an anomaly.  All around us there were gunshots at night and sometimes in midday.  One day he walked up to the corner store for whatever.  He saw three guys, straight thuggin' walking down the street toward him.  He later recounted to me that every bone in his body was telling him "Cross to the other side of the street, these guys are bad news."  He blamed his "liberal b.s." for continuing on his way and giving the guys the benefit of the doubt.  As the three men passed him, one swung a 40 oz bottle and clubbed him in the temple.  He was knocked out cold.  When he woke up, he had a black eye, some pretty extensive damage and he was bed ridden for a few days.  He wore a patch for a little bit, but those things all disappeared and as far as I knew, the incident was over.  Little did I know that my father, the man I had always known, that had bounced me on his knee and had shown me how to accept humanity with an open heart died that day.  Now, not all of his goodness died. Not all of his humor died.  His love for us didn't die.  It was the passionately liberal and accepting person that died that day.
  The first sign that things had changed was when my dad got his concealed handgun permit.  Now, I am fine with the 2nd amendment and all.  I like shooting and I love hunting.  I do not however feel the need to carry a handgun to the grocery store.  I don't want to be responsible for that crap.  So, my dad, Mr. Liberal started listening to this new conservative shock jock named Rush.  He retreated to his office when he wasn't working.  He began reading books about personal wealth and purchasing Tony Robbins tapes.  I mean all of this stuff happened over a span of a few years, but it was all there.  He tried to get out of the house painting/carpentry racket and tried a bunch of different careers.  He sold cars for Ron Tonkin, he was a Killer (exterminator)  he got involved in a pyramid scheme selling water filtration devices (now that one truly was ahead of its time, unfortunately too far ahead of its time).  Eventually he joined the union, but his politics became more and more diametrically opposed to the frame of mind that led him to walk down the wrong side of the street and "get himself killed."  I was young, but I think the first time I truly understood that there was something really wrong was when he voted for Ross Perot.  Things got pretty hot around the house.  I mean he was the only person that was feeling these things and identifying with this crap.  The rest of us were the people he had raised us to be, political, fervently liberal and mystified at what was going on in his head.  My mother must have wondered what the hell the bodysnatchers did with her husband and if he was ever coming back.  So my once happy home, poor but satisfied and happy, continued to be poor, but less satisfied and much less happy.  Sarah was out of the house, off to Tacoma, not to return (not judging,)  Dan was off in "me" land, (not judging), Gabe was the enigma of all enigmas at this point, pissed off at the world,  (a little bit of judging, because he laid into me kinda hard at times, but that is long since behind us)  Conor and Phil got the brunt of this weird Kafkaesque metamorphosis of the man, and I don't know if they even remembered the father they lost.  I was in high school, so oblivious to anything that didn't involve my friends, my wallet or my gonads.  (sorry for that :) )  It just went downhill from there.  There was eight freaking years of "Goddamn Clinton!)  and we stopped talking to one another.  After I left the house and graduated from the University of Portland, I made an effort, and he made an effort.  I got married in 2000 and shortly afterward he was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  It was diagnosed late and pretty much shot the chances for a full remission.  Thanks to some experimental treatments and some amazing luck, he lived with it for a long time.  We worked together for a while, first with my Uncle Joe,as he was trying to get his business off the ground. Later, the two of us went out together, Patrick McNassar and Son(s) was born. He helped me figure out that i needed to grow up a bit so I could start and support a family.  We worked on our projects, listening to Glen Beck and actually getting along quite well.  I had to remap my thought processes, my instincts, my preconceptions and guard my reactions to Mike Savage, Lars Larson and the dittohead caca that just spewed forth uncontrollably and unchecked at times.  Now I know a lot of conservative guys and they are all entitled to their points of view and their "truths" but it just wasn't this guy.  So we parted ways after a bit.  He tried to get some union work.  I tried to find something stable.  As it was, my father inspired me to try my hand at building as a career and I applied for and was accepted into the carpenters apprenticeship.  It was great and I felt connected to him in a way that I hadn't experienced in such a long time.
  Slowly, his health declined.  He was excited to meet Liam, his first grandchild.  He held him and knew him. He took great joy in playing with Liam even if he was bound to a wheelchair and eventually a bed.  My dad, who had always been so agile and hearty, like a wiry monkey climbing up on roofs and hiking miles through the forest with a rifle and a pack without getting winded, was shutting down.  There were so many battles going on in his heart and his mind.  There was a battle in my mind between his two identities as well.  I saw in him, when Liam sat on the edge of his bed, that same look of hope and encouragement that he had shared with me when I was small.  It was almost as if the fact that his time here was limited that he could finally let go of the trauma that had turned him on his head and caused him so much continuous grief for so long.  He was slowing down a bit and then his brother John, my godfather was diagnosed with the same cancer.  Within a month or two, John was gone.  It was so shocking, so overwhelming, so tragic.  And as 2005 drew to a close, we knew that our time with our father was growing short.  The boys took him out fishing one last time and we spent as much time with him as we could.  It was really only the last month that he was confined solely to his bed.  It was just the last week, the last few days that he lost the ability to talk.  He lived long enough to know that he was going to be a grandfather again.  It was a Friday, the 13th actually, a little ominous I know.  I knew the time was short.  My mother's washer and dryer crapped out and I offered to drive up to Sarah's to get the spare set in her garage.  He died as I was on the road.  I was a little conflicted about that for a while, sorrowful.  Someone very wise and full of compassion (you know who you are, but I cannot remember, remember?) pointed out that I was doing exactly what my dad would have done had he been able.  So, my absence was excusable.  So it was on the 13th of January, 2006, that my father died for the second time.At the wake (one hell of a party) Otto Wild tugged at my shoulder and asked quietly, "What's the deal with these?"  He was holding a personalized Christmas card from George W Bush to my dad and had a very confused look on his face.

Epilogue:

Many people have voices or personality traits that act in concert/conflict within themselves.  Few of us however have such a distinct and externally observable dichotomy.  I could chalk the whole thing up to PTSD or a psychotic break, but the truth is more than that.  My dad was a Catholic, a seminarian, devout and true.  He was passionate.  He chose a path and followed it to its conclusion, twice.  Passionately.

"The change in the weather
is known to be extreme,
But what's the sense of changing
horses in midstream
I'm going out of my mind
with a pain that stops and starts
like a corkscrew in my heart
ever since we've been apart"
             - Bob Dylan "You're A Big Girl Now"
 

I find that I have forgotten so much.  I do not remember much of my life.  What I do retain is fragmented, broken pieces, mostly emotions tied to tragedy or triumph.  Keystone moments of my life, great rejections, first kisses, kiss offs, broken hearts and fulfilled promises.  Some would say these are the things we are meant to remember, but for a guy that can recall Joe Mantegna's 1991 monologue from when he hosted Saturday Night Live, well...fragmented recall is unacceptable.  I know that the much of life is mundane and I in particular have spent much of it in passing time as quickly and painlessly as possible, but I remember enough to know that there are thousands of anecdotes and moments that were so intriguing that if I could just collect them and form them into a basic narrative, they would enthrall the reader to no end.  A house full of boys is never short of chaos or angst.  There was blood, noses and gerbils thrown from a second story window (nice work Conor) and there was an incident where I reenacted a scene from Crocodile Dundee telling my brother that what he held was not a knife, though as I made to pull out a bigger knife, his little pen knife opened my palm, proving both my point moot and the point that the pen may be mightier than the sword, but perhaps the penknife to be mightier still.  
  I guess when it comes down to it, I have to start with the things I remember clearly.  I remember the garage of my condo.  I remember being ankle deep in cedar shavings, planing out the edges of a box.  Daniel had come to my need as I had previously done for him, in the wake of his own tragedy, when his own sweet Rebecca has died after three short days of life.  Daniel brought wood and his help.  We cut a box, at first much too deep, but after calling the cemetery caretaker and affirming the appropriate dimensions, we amended our plan and we were back on track.  I was a little concerned that the stress of a body, even a small one would be too much for the soft wood and it would break, spilling my son's body on the ground, adding insult to catastrophe.  I realized I was exaggerating the stresses placed on the box.
  I took a step back and reassessed.  Of course I had wasted precious time, first planning on purchasing a coffin rather than building one.  Liam was breathing his last and I felt too overwhelmed to move, let alone build something, with everything rent around me.  It was when he was gone, with a known timeline that I understood how important this was.  With Rebecca, Daniel and I needed to have her coffin immediately, before the Sabbath began, a coffin with no metal fasteners, appropriate for an infant.  All the cemetery had available was some flimsy plastic thing that he wouldn't bury a Barbie doll in.  That was necessity.  With Liam, this was necessity as well, but of a different sort.  I needed to know that he would be covered in love for eternity.  We built a box out of cedar, a sacred plant.  I padded the inside and lined it with white satin.  I fastened steamer trunk handles that I had used for my work cart and that had accompanied me through my apprenticeship, a difficult and arduous learning experience.  I oiled the wood with Dark Walnut colored Danish Wood Oil oil and used extra upholstery tacks to make the halo of a celtic cross overlay I had affixed to the cover of the coffin.  The lid bolted down to the bottom of the box.  Looking at it, I thought only of how clumsy and oversized it looked.  I was concerned because the boards had not been jointed and there were a few small gaps that the casual observer would probably ignore or miss.  Our neighbor Kathy came by with a smile on her face earlier in the day.  She saw me starting the project and asked cheerfully what I was working on.  Daniel ran interference and told her what we were doing and why.  She broke down and retreated back to the safety of her home, to lick her wounds.  The sheer number of people that were affected by Liam's death still continues to amaze me.  Not because I doubt his influence or the impact a small child can have on such a large number of people, but because I had almost convinced myself that his charisma and greatness were merely in my mind, a father's love and adoration which magnifies his son's qualities to epic status, Achilles to my mind.  So there I stood, an hour before dawn, alone in the garage, pressing the final golden pins into the lid of my son's coffin.  With each one, I said a prayer, though I was certain there was no one at the other end of my stream of consciousness.  I prayed that I had done right by Liam.  I prayed that I had made an acceptable resting place.  I prayed that despite all of my failings, I had been an adequate father, balancing the gifts of providence with love and devotion.  I hoped Liam knew as he lay there in the dark, in his mothers arms, blinded by the train that had pulled into the station to carry him into oblivion , that he took with him, in a satchel under his arm, the best parts of me, the parts that swallowed life by the gulp and choked on it with mirth, the parts that recognized beauty in simple graces and loved rolling down a hill and collapsing into a heap at the bottom, bereft of breath or shame in the act.  Those things were gone.  I allowed the last vestiges of my art, my desire to perform my craft, my energy to do anything to flow through my hands and fingertips and press those gold upholstery tacks into the soft cedar lid.  I walked up the long flight of stairs to the main floor, expecting Lisette to be asleep.  She was awake of course, her son was dead, there would be no sleep this evening.  I brought her down and showed her my work.  She nodded assent and that was that.
  Later we brought the casket to the funeral home.  They prepared the body.  Since Liam was so small and would be buried immediately, he was not embalmed.  The funeral home took such beautiful care of him, completely gratis.  Lisette and I viewed the body.  Liam was in a beige sweater and khaki slacks, his most prized possessions laid in his coffin with him.  His sword and shield at his feet like a fallen Norse warrior.  His dragons and totems.  In a final feverish attempt at eternal proximity, I cut a silver half dollar into 4ths (please don't tell the treasury department) and placed one of the 4ths with Liam.  One I now wear on a chain around my neck.  Lisette has one around hers as well.  We have a last piece for Sophia when she is old enough to be responsible with it.  I thought Mario may want one as well.  In that eventuality, I think I will take a coirner off mine and inset it in a ring and give the necklace to Mario.  I will wear the ring.  Michelle came into the room as we said our final goodbye to our son.  She took a few pictures.  Lisette asked the funeral director several times if he was sure Liam was dead.  He looked like he was asleep.  We touched his cold skin, kissed his cold lips and placed the lid on the coffin, screwing to top down securely.  We brought him to St. Anthony's where his Great Grandparents, his Great-Great Grandmother, two Great Uncles, a cousin and other family members lay nearby.  As a piper played his favorite tune, Loch Lomond into the wind, a small cedar chest that carried my hope was laid into a hole, covered with dirt and cloaked in black.  This was my worst day.

  In an attempt to collect my thoughts, channel them into a cogent stream of consciousness and hopefully result in helpful reflection (for myself if for none other) I have endeavored to commit to type the musings submitted herein.  For any observers, I apologize from the onset any self-indulgent behavior, for which I am frequently guilty.  To myself, I give you permission to speak freely without threat of shame or recourse.

  Now that is out of the way, I would like to say that the purpose of this journal is to remember the two most influential people in my life to this point:  My father, Patrick Maur McNassar, b. 8/29/1946, d. 1/13/2006 and my son, Liam Patrick McNassar b. 8/27/2004, d. 6/10/2009.  It is through these two people I learned what I should be as a father and as a son.  I learned by example as well as by trial.  I learned as well technique and my goal for spirituality.  In the lives of the two individuals, one that created me and one that I in turn created, both loved well and buried by my own hand, I found a need for understanding and grace.  I have found in their loves, so different, though rooted in the same bonds of blood and element, peace in the knowledge that the gifts I have to share are gifts given to me by them.  I was given two great examples of how to live a life wherein you are true to yourself, honest about your role in the world and above all else, loyal to the ones you love and who rely on you for security, guidance and love.  It is my goal to illustrate the gifts of Patrick and Liam as well as discuss the lasting effects of their presences on my world view as well as my image of myself.  I hope through this Odyssey to eventually understand my role as father and son in a way that I can affect those I love in as positive a way as my father and my son have.