I don’t remember a time when my Dad wasn’t part of my life.
← (Dad)
I can look at pictures and match the images with stories of the days before Mom divorced the man who contributed half of my genetic makeup, but I can’t say I remember BioDad (as my sister, Tracie, has dubbed him).
My earliest memories include only the man who raised me, who married a woman outside his Catholic faith—a divorced woman with a little girl—and then adopted me and gave me his name so the whole world would know I was his, no matter what the genetic fingerprints said.
My Dad, Richard Noakes, was the second son in a family of three boys (Lew was older, Wayne was younger), and two girls, the twins, Michelle and Marlene.
Rich and my mom met on the night following her divorce, at a bowling alley where he was out with his best friend, Larry, and mom was out with her friends, Mary Lou and Joan.
Rumor has it that Dad went home and told his family, “I just met the girl I’m going to marry!” while Mom came back to my grandparents’ place and proclaimed, “Tonight, I met the two biggest (jerks) in the world.”
They had many such robust differences of opinion in the ensuing thirty-four years.
I’m not sure how long Mom and Rich dated before Mom felt like he should meet me. I just know that he immediately waged a campaign to be my best friend. Mom and I were a package deal, and Rich seemed to know right off the bat that his future with Mom really depended on his ability to win the heart of her little girl.
This was fine with me. Rich had a knack for picking out just the right bribe/gift to move me into his corner. I still have a fierce love for the stuffed mama rabbit that doubled as a pajama bag and birthed a baby bunny every night at bedtime. I dubbed them Richie and Little Richie in his honor (name/gender norms were lost on me—look at my name!). Those stuffed toys are long gone, but for a few years you couldn’t pry those rabbits away from me with a crowbar.
And if the gifts weren’t enough, there was always the promise of a ride in his Chevy convertible. Mom would put my hair in a ponytail and stick a scratchy nylon scarf on my head and off we’d go to a park or the lake, the drive-in movie, or the A & W.
Rich had a boat, too, and I loved standing on the seat behind the wheel of his cabin cruiser, steering my way around the waters of Lake Michigan and Lake Geneva, with Rich’s steady hand over mine.
By the time he was ready to propose to my Mom, he knew I was his staunchest ally.
I was six when they married, and I was determined to do my part to make this threesome a family. When I last saw him before the wedding, I called out, “ ’Bye, Rich!” And when he and mom came to get me after the ceremony, I greeted him with, “Hi, Daddy!”
Dad wanted it official, though, so the next thing I knew, we were all in court going through the adoption that would change my name, generate a new birth certificate, and make me one with all other two-parent kids I knew.
Dad was really into being a father, and especially stoked that even though he was the middle son, he had presented his parents with their first grandchild.
A little over a year later, Mom and Dad gave me the BEST early birthday gift I could have asked for: my sister, Tracie.
Our folks gave both of us many gifts over the years, but the one that I treasure most is my sister, because I nearly lost that relationship.
We’d drifted apart as grown-ups, and Mom was really the glue that kept all of us together, and that only at holiday time. After she died in 1991, Tracie and I each kept in touch with Dad, but we didn’t do so hot at keeping in touch with each other.
Then Dad’s health started to fail in 2007. Since Dad lived on her property, Tracie was his primary care giver. I was 3 hours south, so I took care of Dad’s finances in cyberspace. Tracie and I talked daily, as much to share information about our areas of responsibility, as to bolster each other’s spirits.
Dad died a few weeks before Father’s Day in 2008, but before he slipped from our lives, he brought his daughters back together, giving each of us a priceless gift.
Here’s a poem I wrote for him the first Christmas after Mom died. You can’t know what it did to me, to see how much it meant to him.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. We miss you.
(Untitled; for Dad, 5/20/34 – 6/7/08
I wanted to tell you
how chubby arms loved to hug you
even as they clutched a well-worn bunny.
And I wanted to tell you
how laughter returned to my mother’s eyes
and “normal” wasn’t lonely, any more.
I wanted to tell you how proud I felt
standing beside you in a solemn room
Accepting a new life.
And for every time I watched pride battle with pain
and dreams give way to necessity
I hope you knew
that I knew.
And I hope you know I count myself blessed
to call you “Father.”
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