I have been trying to finish a series of post from Ireland for the last couple of days, but to be honest; something has been bugging me for more than a week. I’ve been a bit out of sorts. Wounds always heal, but they sometimes leave a nasty scar that smacks you in the face every morning.

I worshiped the ground my father walked on while growing up. He was my hero. The man could and still can turn anything into gold. He can straight faced tell you that he shot Abraham Lincoln and you’d believe it. He can fictionalise anything on the fly. And, you wonder where I get it from?

About six or seven months ago, we started communicating again after years of estrangement. We’ve had our kerfuffles over the years, but I generally stayed away from him for my mother’s sake. I have been his sparring partner most of my life. Of course, I had no desire to spar with anyone as a kid, but I kind of enjoyed knocking him on his ear once when I was 16. I was a wee lad at that age.

Over the past few months we’ve grown closer. I’ve been able to bounce words off of him instead of fist which is a rare feat. He has given me advice and even encouraged me to move to Ireland, if that is what I truly want to do. I’ve told him about the women I’ve loved, the one that got away, and the myriad of others that I’m constantly chasing after. That kind of talk gets his undivided attention. I told him how I felt like I got shafted and deserved another shot.

We’ve talked about my Mum, which is a very touchy subject. They had a very…very nasty divorce. In short, all men, including myself, have a weakness for women. It is not as much a weakness for him, as it is an essence that drives him.

At the time, they had seven different businesses that my mother and her secretaries ran. They had a paving company, a grading company, a landscaping company, a battery company, an automotive repair shop, a real estate company, and an entertainment company (arcade/go-carts). All of that was liquidated during the divorce. Millions of dollars were thrown around along with slanderous words. I didn’t go to any of the proceedings.

Me and the one sister that I had at the time (1995) were given property and trust funds. My dad apologised for his mistakes but it was too late. My mother had put up with it for too many years. They only fought over a few things, one of which was my old truck that he and I built in ‘89, I think. He didn’t let go of it easily.

The truck in question has been in my procession ever since. I have watched over it, bathed it, and kept it in working order. There are a lot of good memories of me and pops working on that old 56 Ford Pickup. It was the only time that we could have a real conversation with one another.

After returning from Ireland a few weeks ago, I decided to sell the old hunk of steel. So, I called up me pops and asked if he wanted to buy it. He was delighted at the news. We had lunch and he told me what he wanted to do to it. I could see the excitement in his eyes, as he showed my sisters the truck and told them about us building it. It was like he was able to relive a good part of his life that he had put away.

Well, the feuding over the truck ensued between my parents. It was like I was reliving all of that garbage over again. He took the high road and she took the low road on this one. She held the title and wouldn’t relinquish it. He washed his hands of the entire fiasco. He has a “New” life and didn’t need the drama, so she won.

Ever since they talked on the phone, he’s not answered my calls. I called him on “Father’s” day, but to no avail. I do not even know where the man lives. You know, I’m going to be leaving here in two months for a long while. I really need to talk to me pops, but I can’t spar with him over the phone or in the ring if he doesn’t answer the phone.

I went about five years one time without talking to him. I couldn’t do that now! I’ve learned that we don’t really know what tomorrow will bring, so it is best to make amends with those that we are feuding with. Tis not good to go to bed mad at anyone.

After work today, I came home and went straight out to my garage/sparring ring/gym/sauna. While beating the living hell out of the unfortunate boxing bag, I caught a glimpse of my neighbour out of the sweaty corner of my eye. He was standing outside the door hollering over the thrums of a shortwave radio sitting atop an antique refrigerator in the corner. I paused to speak to him and realised that there was blood oozing down two fingers of my martial arts gloves. He said I had been furiously hitting that bag like it was someone for a straight half hour without pausing. While dripping with sweat and still shaking from adrenaline, I nodded and looked at my watch that was in my pocket and realised that he was right.

I ran in the house and cleaned up my hand. The nylon seam and friction had cut into my pinky. He hung around for a bit, had a beer, and playfully sparred with me. He said he’d never seen me so mad in the seven years we’ve been neighbours. He grabbed another beer out of my antique fridge and held the bag for a bit, ‘til my hand started bleedin’ again. No pain, no gain, right?

Sometimes you have to fight for what you want. Sometimes the beautiful words I scribe, the pictures I take,, and the sketches I draw don’t cut the mustard. Sometimes you have to fight for every breath. I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve had to fight to stay alive most of my life. I don’t like to fight, because I am afraid of what I’d do to the other man. As I told a guy recently that was asking for it, “I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of what I’d do to you”.

I, like my father, am small boned. We’re not big boned people. I’m starting to understand why he felt the need to beat the crap out of people two feet taller than him and become a legend in these parts. Mind you, I’ll not follow his path on child rearing. No effing way! I have never and will never hit a woman! And, I will never ever hurt a child. I’ll learn to deal with it in my own way. Tis not in my nature to be mean, sly maybe, but never mean.

I’ll be out there tomorrow evening hitting that bag and jumping rope. But, I’ll be doing it to get in shape, not feed the fury that rages inside of all of us.

There’s a beer in the fridge for you, pops.

I didn’t really know where this post was going, when I sat down here to write it. It’s still a bit of a mess, but you get the general idea, I hope? Karma has a crazy way of playing you from time to time. My dad now lives with three of my sisters and their mother. That’s four women against my short and getting old pops. I love it! Let me add that he worships the ground those girls walk on. He’s very mild and quite mannered these days.

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