My father produced four litters that I'm aware of. I've only met a handful. I didn't meet him until I was 35, and it was an unnerving situation for me. At a spaghetti restaurant in Belmont California. What sticks in my mind about that meeting is his hands. They were my hands, 35 years older. And some of his gestures, the way he spaces out. Some of the things that are inherited are not what you'd expect. I could not escape the resentment I held for him. I could not escape my anger. It was confusing. I felt no love and I didn't want to either. I did not know why I wanted to meet him in the first place, except to say, fuck you, too. Which I didn't because it would have been so out of place. The person I was angry with wasn't him--it was a figment of my imagination. The good that came out of it was that I acknowledged my profound respect and love for my stepfather, who had stepped up to the plate, and never, ever let me down. Not once. Not ever. He gave me everything he could and regretted that he could not give me the one thing that I was so desparate for because I did not let him.

My mother was left in the lurch as you were, and the impact on our lives and on her was painful at times, and hard for me to deal with growing up not only without a father, but with a father who had essentially not cared enough about me to say hello, etc.

Now I am a grandfather. And I love my daughter and her daughters dearly and I could only wish for more children in my life. My youngest grand daughter was born last October. My ex and I separated when my daughter was three. I've always done my best to be a part of my daughter's life, to be a father. My daughter has a step-father. He's a terrific guy and I understand why my ex married him. We're very much alike in some ways although our ethnic roots are quite different.

A couple years ago, a couple from Reno built their summer home across the street from me--actually, across the street from the house next door to mine that I've rented for my mother so I can keep an eye on her and help take care of her. (She'll be 99 this year.) So the couple move in with their young kids, and I'm doing the neighborly thing, having a cup of coffee with the husband in their kitchen one morning, and I happened to say, "you know, Steve, it's funny--the only other person I know in Reno, his wife has the same name as your wife." He looks at me stangely. He says, "what is his name?" "Sam." His draw drops (noticeably) and he calls his wife, "honey, come here!" Now as it turns out, this man grew up seeing my father in his house every weekend, playing cards with his father. He knows more about my father than I do! And he is amazed to learn that Sam's first wife is living across the street.

I was gratified. I was able to talk to him and to his father about my father, and I learned some things about him that made sense to me. I was able to see a side of him that I could feel proud about and relate to in a positive way. It was a pretty huge thing to happen to me, to forgive my father and to understand him, and to love him.

I live in this little town near San Diego. Far from Reno. Far from anyplace my father had ever been. Isn't it remarkable?

Best wishes,

Michael Winn
http://delmarnews.blogspot.com