Lament for a Father I Hardly Knew

A few months ago, Nov. 29 of last year, my father drank some Jack Daniels, put a gun to his head and ended his life.  A complex and somewhat colorful life ended.  My hopes for a better relationship with my father died as well.

Frank Junior Busbey was born August 7, 1926.  His family was from Missouri but came to reside in Joliet, Illinois.  Dad was the oldest child in his family.  He had 5 brothers and one sister.

I have pictures of me and Dad when I was probably around 2 years old.  He and Mom had divorced around that time.  I believe I was 5 or 6 years old the Christmas Dad sent me a cowboy outfit as a present (one of two presents he gave me during my childhood).  I thought it was coolest thing and still have a picture somewhere of my young self showing out in that outfit. But the first time I remember meeting him I was 8 years old.  Dad was in the Air Force and he never visited.  One of his uncles committed suicide when I was 8 and Dad came to town for the funeral.  He spent a few hours with my sister, Dianne, and me.  He took us up in a small airplane!  That was quite a day for an 8 year old boy – meeting your father and going up in an airplane for the first time.

The next time I saw Dad I was 11 years old.  He had just married his third wife, Lee, and came through town on his way from Alaska to Florida.  For a week I slept in his camper with his new family.  We went fishing, glued model planes together and hung out.  My Step-mother was nice.  Her 10 year old daughter was bratty, but probably no brattier than I was!  Dad told me he wanted to take me with him on a trip through Virginia to meet his new wife’s family.  Dianne and I didn’t think my Mom would go along with that, but Dad told me, “Never say never, son.” The week ended with my Mom having a very heated exchange with Dad.  I didn’t know that Dad was asking Mom to give him custody of me.  She was a furious Momma-bear and my Step-dad was right behind her ready to step in.  Dad left.  There were postcards and letters for awhile.  They stopped.  I didn’t see him again until my first wedding when I was 19.

In my twenties I probably saw Dad 4 or 5 times.  He and Lee came to visit my family and me a couple of times.  In 1981 we flew to Homestead, Florida and spend several days with him and Lee.  Phone calls were once or twice a year for awhile, less often after that.  When I was 31 or 32 Dad got married for the 4^th time.  His bride to be was a much younger woman from South America who spoke little English.  Dad spoke very little Spanish.  Dad asked me to perform the wedding.  His multiple marriages created a problem for me.  The greater problem was I knew it would devastate my mother if I did that.  Dad was offended by my refusal, and we lost contact for a while.  At some point one of us reached out to the other.  But whatever relationship we had was never the same again. 

For the last 30 years of his life I saw my father 3 or 4 times.  For most of my adult life, and all of the past 10 years or so, what little contact we had was initiated by me.  We were always warm and friendly to each other when we talked.  But as I saw his continued failure to reach out to me, I reached a point where I had little desire to even try.

Dad was married to his 5^th wife, Jo, 25 years.  In our few phone talks he told me her health was declining for the past several years.  

Dad did attend my first wedding in 1971.  When my first wife, Karen, died in 2002 Dad flew up for the funeral.  When my sister, his daughter, Diane died in 2005 died came to her funeral.  That was the last time I saw my father alive.  

In June of 2010 I accepted a job in Brunswick, Georgia and was only 3 hours from where Dad and Jo were living in High Springs, Florida.  Several months ago I called Dad and offered to come down to visit him.  He seemed cold and indifferent to the idea.  He indicated he could squeeze me in while he did his chores.  I chose not to bother him.

Jo died this past November 15.  Dad had told me of her illness, but did not tell me of her death.  I called him November 27 to check on Jo and him.  He told me of her death and his intense grief.  I felt I could somewhat understand that grief.  I tried to offer sympathy and offered to come down and check on him.  I intended to be there for him, to offer support and see what relationship we could build from this point.  He seemed to warm up to that idea and talked of introducing me to his friends.  Dad also told me of being so grief stricken 8 days before that that he had taken a pistol and held it to his head before deciding to continue living.  I asked if he was still having thoughts like that.  He assured me he did not and talked of plans to move ahead in life.  He seemed to be no danger to himself at that moment.  Two days later he allowed the darkness to swallow him. Since his death there have been accusations that he was murdered and things were staged to make it look like suicide.  But the official findings lists the cause of death as suicide.  All of this complicates the family's grief.

My father was a complex man.  Bluntly, I knew him to be self-centered and selfish.  My Mother always told me my father was a bad man.  Things I have heard since his death lead me to fear he was an evil man.  yet, even if that is true, there was good mixed in with all the rest. At my sister’s funeral just moments before I was start the service he told me that when he died he would stand before God and tell Him, “I did it my way.”  I do not know what my father said to the Ruler of the universe when he stood before Him, if anything.  But I am quite certain it was not that phrase. 

I performed Dad’s funeral.  It was tough, but God was truly gracious.  I did not preach him into heaven nor hell.  I simply stated that his eternal destiny is in the hands of the just and merciful Judge of all.

I have come to realize that in the providence of God it is likely I am far better off that my father had such a small role in my life.  But a man grieves the loss both of a distant relationship and of the small hope I had at the end for more.  Somewhere inside of me a little boy grieves the loss of the father he never had.