The Widower’s Rant: Like His Father Before Him

My mother died in 2003, and my father died 19 years later in 2022. He was 64 when mom died, and I was a month shy of my 62nd birthday when Beth died. When I realized the similar timing, it sent a chill down my spine. I was becoming my father.

We have all read sentiments about fathers such as, "My father was my hero" and "My dad was a great friend." I envy people with these sorts of deep connections with their dads. I have a complicated relationship with my father. I loved and cared for him, but mine didn’t show emotion, was command and control, had a strict hierarchy, and was very hard on me. There’s a lot to unpack. To better understand how he raised me, why I think he did not thrive after my mom died, and why I’m hell-bent on doing it very differently, you’ll please indulge me with a bit of backstory.

Don William Plumley was born into abject sharecropper poverty in rural southern Arkansas. He was the middle child of six born in what’s charitably called a house in a town of less than 100 residents. Every other summer, we drove from Southern California to Arkansas to spend a week in the country. Fishing, shooting cans, visiting relatives whose names I’ll never remember. As late as 1977, when I last went, this house had no running water and a one-holer in a shed in the yard. The floors were not level, and the porch seemed as if it could collapse at any moment. The outside peeked in through the hand-hewn timber planks that formed the walls. It snows there occasionally, and the only heat source was a small wood stove in the corner. Instead of running water, there was a well in the backyard. As I write that, the image of the well from Jack and Jill with the cute roof somewhere in an alpine meadow is probably what you see. Nope. It was a hole in the backyard covered with a discarded stop sign. A bucket with a worn rope sat nearby to be lowered into the chasm that I thought went to the center of the planet. I gave it a wide berth whenever I walked near it. For many years, I was too small to use the one-holer, so I defecated into a porcelain pot inside of a cloth-partitioned "closet" in a bedroom. At least they had electric lights because someone stapled an extension cord to the ceiling so a bare bulb could hang down and dimly illuminate the few rooms. My grandmother worked in what’s best described as survival mode. She woke before dawn to start the cooking fire and make biscuits and gravy from scratch. Then on to tend the garden, feed chickens, can vegetables, sew clothes without a machine or pattern, make more meals, and then, start again the next day. If you know the expression “fingers to the bone,” she was the dictionary definition. She was a prepper not because it became trendy but because her family’s survival depended on it. After my grandfather died, my dad and uncle bought her a brick home with indoor plumbing in the neighboring city. 

My uncle and father each left Arkansas as soon as they were eligible to join the military. To leave poverty behind and try to create a better life for themselves. My father enlisted in the Army and was stationed in Japan. Unlike the other soldiers, he was not fond of carousing, as he called it. Instead, he discovered he could loan them money when they ran out before payday. His innate instinct as a banker started early. I assume from being a payday lender before the strip mall stores took hold, he uniquely had a car in Japan. A ‘52 Chevy. His buddy had a local girlfriend and wanted to go out, so he asked my dad to drive them with the offer that they would set him up. And that’s how he met my mom. 

I’m becoming my father…

Beth and I had our first solo date on a ski trip to Tahoe. This spoiled youngster had a BMW that I treasured and cared for. Because of the car, we could easily go skiing together. And that was the date that never ended. 

Michiko worked for the General as a translator and secretary. She was the eldest daughter of four siblings, came from an upper-middle-class family, and my grandfather was an engineer who wore western suits and a hat in the 1950’s. I re-discovered her photo albums after my dad died. My mom was kick-ass amazing. There are pictures of her hiking/camping, going to the beach, traveling throughout Japan, and skiing—all with a clan of other women. Given the era and the country, it’s even more remarkable.

My mom told me that my dad fit the image of a new adventure, an interesting foreigner. She was to have an arranged marriage. This is significant because her younger sister wanted to marry but could not until Michiko did. His service complete, he returned to the States and decided to live in Southern California to be near his brother, who settled in San Diego. I could write volumes about my middle name namesake uncle, Wyatt Jackson Plumley. Perhaps one day I will. He was the polar opposite of my dad. He loved beer and parties, was gregarious, kept a slight southern drawl, and never met someone who wasn’t a friend. But I digress.

My dad wrote to Michiko and asked her to join him in California. She must have been waiting for this adventure, so she promptly left her family and the arranged marriage behind in Japan to marry the man from Arkansas. Shortly after, baby made three. The bravery of my mom coming to start a life in America takes my breath away. But more on that another time. 

I’m becoming my mother…

I was headed to medical school in Chicago. Beth graduated a year ahead of me. I followed her down to Southern California after my graduation. I was so smitten by her. I abandoned the "arranged marriage" of the only career path I planned and which my parents eagerly anticipated to become a doctor. Instead, I’ve traveled the world solo and made friends in all corners of this planet. I am the skier, the hiker, the speed freak, the adventurer. Just like my mommy. 

After a brief first job, my father joined United California Bank as a management trainee. He rose through the ranks quickly. His first big promotion took us to Escondido, where they purchased a new house in a growing suburb of San Diego. By any measure, I had an idyllic childhood. Cub Scouts, paperboy, Boy Scouts, leaving in the morning with buddies and coming home at night in the summer, great student—all supported by two doting parents who put me in the center of their universe. 

My dad was home almost every night for dinner that my mom, fulfilling the traditional housewife role to textbook perfection, prepared for us. My mom volunteered at my schools and was a Den Mother in Cub Scouts. In Boy Scouts, my dad was at every meeting, at every monthly backpacking trip, and he even became part of volunteer management for San Diego County Council. He bought a cool old Range Rover to be with me on all the trips and taught me how to drive and care for it.

I said he was hard on me. Something as simple as learning to toss the football (which was so hard as this tiny kid could barely hold it in one hand, much less throw it with precision) was tempered with, “Do this right, or I’m going inside.” I remember a day when I rode my bike to school with a flat tire. I thought it was a headwind. It took me forever, and I got a “late slip.” Understand that I was a "perfect" kid. Straight A’s, teacher's pet, "most likely to succeed," Eagle Scout, etc., etc. But when my mom showed my dad the late slip, I was grounded for a month. I note that I still check my bike tires before every ride. But what sticks in my mind is when I was head of my Boy Scout Troup: The Senior Patrol Leader. That meant I stood before the Troop and ran the monthly meeting with precision, following a detailed agenda I had prepared. Every night after those meetings, I was given a detailed critique of how I could have done it better, frequently to the point of tears. I likely became a better business leader because of this training. But all of this came at the cost of a deeper relationship with my father. 

I’m becoming my father…

When Curtis was in Boy Scouts, we bought a Suburban so I could drive and be there on the backpacking trips. I was the “strict” parent. When I traveled, the kids enjoyed the “fun” parent who took them out of school to go to Disneyland or the beach. When I came home, the house became much more rule-following and task-oriented. 

I am very good with my hands. I can make or fix almost anything. I learned this all from my dad, and I’m grateful. I watched him make cabinets for the garage, paint and hang gutters on the house, and helped him dig trenches around our yard for the forms to pour concrete borders. He landscaped and maintained two houses to botanical garden perfection without help, except for Mom and me. We built a large freestanding shed in our backyard, complete with a darkroom for me. He let me do the electrical wiring, saying, “I understood it better than him.” But anything I helped him with had to be done perfectly, or I was yelled at, or worse. Unless there was a Boy Scout outing, we worked on that house every weekend. I have learned to hate yardwork. 

I’m becoming my father…

I built a race car in my garage, doing everything myself except welding in the cage. Our son got his first car, and like. his father before him, it was a 3 Series BMW (to be fair, not much older than the one I had in 1982). I enjoyed showing him how to change the oil and other routine maintenance. Fast forward, and he’s bought and sold a number of cars, meticulously caring for each of them. I watched in amazement as he dropped a transmission to replace a clutch and install a supercharger on another. Earlier this year, he did an engine swap by himself in his garage. He tells me how he made the car computer know about the different engine type, and I listen with unending pride. He has far eclipsed what I have done.

My “get tasks done first before playing” ethos comes directly from my upbringing. And there is always another task to do. Playing was a reward, and it had to be earned. On the other hand, Beth was raised by a father who viewed playing as the most important objective in life. Hearing complaints from his neighbors about his dead grass, he famously painted it green. Oh boy, are there stories to tell. My father and my father-in-law might as well be from different species. 

At work, my dad became an EVP, reporting to the CEO of First Interstate Bank. This accomplishment is no small matter. He had only a high school education from a rural school. I'm told he was a great leader and trusted executive. Especially considering the poverty from which he rose, he was very successful. Because he had less than nothing as a child, he liked and deserved to have nice things and nice surroundings. He loved to shower my mother with the finest clothes, jewlery, anything she could possibly imagine, and more. He had a closet of the best suits, with shirts crisply pressed by his wife. It’s an American rags-to-riches success story, and he should be proud. I am. Truly and very.

After my mom died, I thought of my father as strong and able to take care of anything. He built an entire patio structure, Japanese-style fences, an immense gazebo, and more either by himself or with limited help from his diminutive son. My dad could do anything on his own. I was in the other half of the state, with my career and family to focus on. And we were not the kind of family with long phone calls to chat about how life was going. I don’t know how he did in the early days or even the middle days after his loss. He never talked about what the loss of his spouse meant to him. He rarely talked about his post-death life, but when he did, it was shallow at best. He didn’t write a blog. 

As a widower, he was a catch. Fit, reasonably well off, well-spoken, somewhat worldly. In an off moment, he would mention the interest of other ladies, much to his dismay. He dismissed them all as “too old,” “too needy,” or “too something else.” Nobody fit my mom's standard (who could!), and he could not picture a life with someone who was not her.

He talked about traveling, but his limited excursions were with his sister. He became more cranky, isolated, and persnickety as he got older. Whenever he mentioned my mom, it was always, “my dear sweet Michi” or “your sweet mom.” This made my stomach churn. He lived in the past with her, unable to enjoy the last quarter of his life in the present. He so wanted to be Japanese that he took the few threads he knew of stoicism and deferential politeness to a level of sickly sweetness that was hard to stomach. We described my father as so not wanting to be inconvenient, that he instead caused so much inconvenience.

For example, my dad never called me to ask about my day—so as not to inconvenience me. When I called him, he always seemed eager to end the call so as not to intrude in my life. Our communication was 99% by email. Our houses were two hours apart, but he would not spend the night in my home. I took this deeply personally, though I knew I should not. He did not want to inconvenience us to make up a room, wash a towel, rinse a cup. It’s not like he had to get home to feed a parrot or water a plant. Even though he told us he had a change of clothes “just in case” in his car, we knew he would leave as soon as the dishes were done. When we did get together, it was awkward. Conversations did not flow. A veneer of politeness permeated the room. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin and in his only son's home.

As he aged, this became a challenge because I was uncomfortable having him drive two hours each way, half in the dark. He did not welcome us into his house in his last decades of life (oh, is that another story). The unwieldy family Thanksgiving dinners are the subject of lore in my family. Since he would not spend the night at my home, we started to pick a restaurant near his house so that he would not need to drive far. We met at a restaurant for our family Thanksgiving dinner, like a second date. Sigh.

The point of this true rant is he had the means to enjoy life in any dimension he desired. Instead, he grew lonelier, more isolated, his social circle, not large to begin with once he retired, collapsed to just a few friends to email, and became a whole hell of a lot more frustrating for his only child. He pined for my mom until his last breath. 

I’m becoming less like my father…

One of the reasons I'm telling my kids about my grief and writing about it is so they know that its difficult and I don't have all the answers. Once or twice a week, I head over to our son’s home when I'm in Tahoe. We hang out a bit. Go for a hike, watch F1 together. I love Sunday Family Supper, and my son prepares it for me now. I'm comfortable reaching into his fridge for a cold victory beer. But right after the dishes are cleared, I look at my watch and know I should head back over the hill. I drive away, alone, to my empty house. Just like he did.

Unfortunately, I now have a much better sense of what my father must have gone through after my mother died. I’ve developed some newfound empathy for him. But he made his journey it without the support of friends, without his son, who was too busy to notice and rebuffed when he tried, and certainly he never talked to a therapist. He accomplished so much on his own that, just like building that gazebo, he grieved alone. 

I’m outgrowing my father…

Perhaps the biggest difference between the relationship I had with my father and I have with our children is that we play together. Once I left for college, I rarely spent time with my parents aside from the infrequent visits. We have routinely vacationed with our adult children, sat around the dinner table for hours, and loved to ski together. This is obviously Beth's influence. It’s somewhat of an unfair comparison as they don’t have a family to draw them away from us, but even with that, I know they enjoy our company and just being together. I regarded time with my dad as the obligation of a good son. I’m sure our kids look forward to our time together. This is the greatest gift of my life.

I used to say he never “moved on from my mom.” That was wrong. I will no more “move on” from Beth as an integral part of my life, my forever love, as I’ll move on from loving my children. But I will “move forward.” My dad never figured out what to do next that would make him happy. I wonder if, in his drive to escape poverty and provide a secure future for his family, he was truly happy. Productive, certainly. Joyful? Not certain. Maybe this isn't fair, though. Perhaps in the years after I left for college and just after his grandson was born, he and my mom had a good time, based on the photographic evidence. Recency bias might be clouding my judgment.

I have the same stubborn independence as my father. I, too, tackle projects on my own for which I should ask for help. But living alone for 20 weeks now (still counting), I know I can’t do it all by myself. It's become easier for me to ask my friends for help, and my friends have made it effortless to ask. I hire people to do certain things because they are faster or better than I, or, more importantly, to give me time to do other things. Perhaps the biggest difference in my recent history—and I owe this all to Beth and, in turn, to my father-in-law—is that now I'm more eager to play first. A whole list of projects I would like to do to our Tahoe house has taken a second seat to be outside, traveling to see friends, spending time with my kids, and enjoying life. In the last decade of his life, almost every email from my dad included the admonition to “enjoy life to its fullest.” Because he knew he was not. Looking back, I was angry with him because I thought he could still take steps to enjoy life to its fullest. But he gave up trying to figure out how. Instead, he waited to die so he could be cremated, and his ashes joined with his dear sweet Michi. 

I have mentioned before that when Option A is taken off the table, you have to make the most of Option B. I think my dad might have been stuck wanting Option A back, or maybe thinking initially that he could re-create Option A. He must have come to the cold conclusion that nothing could replace the life he built with my mom. So he stopped living. I don’t intend to replace the life I had with Beth. It was damn near perfect…but it is history. To move forward, I need to build a new kind of life for myself, maybe even better in some ways, but definitely different. 

I’m a lot like my dad. I can hear his voice and certain expressions coming from my mouth. I’m judgy, particular, and fiercely independent. It scares me at times, given how he turned out in the last quarter of his life. However, over the last twenty years, I’ve come to realize that I’m primarily like my mom. By default, I’m happy, joyful, and grateful. I make friends quickly and enjoy their company. I hope that one day I can fully shake this ghost that I’m becoming my father. 

To move forward, I imagine that, like most things we humans try to do, I will make mistakes. It might be messy at times, and I might fall and skin my knee (or poke a hole in it from my pedal), but I’ll get up, dust off, and continue to make progress. There’s no choice in the matter. I will not end up like my dad.

A parent's goal is for their children to do better than they did in whatever dimension they choose, be it family, adventures, career, friends, etc. In this regard, I hope my father can continue to be proud of me.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald