Jim Bracewell is president of The Men's Resource Network, Inc. (MRN) and editor of MENSIGHT Magazine online.

MRN sponsors TheMensCenter
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Fishing for Daddy.
by
Jim Bracewell © 2004

As each Father’s Day appears on the horizon, my father is frequently on my mind. Thinking about him usually brings up memories of my childhood in Gainesville, Florida. I was born there, in the Alachua County General Hospital on September 8, 1940.

In 1945, my father was in the US Army. He sent me a Post Card that I don't remember getting. Not surprising since I was only 5 years old. I found it my mothers belongings. Here is the text:

When he came home from the Army, Daddy lived up to his promise to take me "fishing& swimming." It's little wonder then that my most vivid memories of my childhood days in Gainesville are of going fishing with "DaddyBoy." The anticipation of those trips was as exciting as the trips themselves. I would wake up early in the morning to the rich smell of coffee brewing and bacon cooking. My mother was already up and preparing breakfast and sandwiches for our lunch. I could hardly wait to get started.

It was still dark as we left and there was usually a bit of fog in the air. My father drove with an authority that I admired. He had his left arm resting on the open window sill, his right hand on the steering wheel and a Camel cigarette in his mouth.

 Occasionally he would extend his arm with his palm down then turn his hand like the flaps on an airplane wing. His arm would move up and down as his hand changed position. I was fascinated by whatever my dad did so I practiced hand flying on my side of the car.

We usually went fishing on Orange Lake about 20 miles to the south of Gainesville. Orange Lake is famous for its continually changing shoreline. Islands of hyacinth plants growing on the surface of the lake are blown around by the wind. Orange Lake is connected to nearby Lochloosa Lake by a natural canal.

The canal and the area around it is called Cross Creek. It was the adopted home ground of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, author of The Yearling and the subject of the movie Cross Creek. I like to fantasize that Mrs. Rawlings was at home making her famous “Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie” while me and Daddy were fishing nearby. She was still alive during our early fishing expeditions so it is within the realm of possibility.

On many of our outings, my dad found it necessary to make a brief side trip. I now realize that these small detours were visits to one of the many moon shiners or bootleggers in the area. Alas, Alachua was officially a “dry” county. Naturally, this fact did not deter the clandestine, distillation efforts of many an enterprising country boy. The laws of supply and demand ruled.

Occasionally, as we were fishing, daddy would shout something like, “Jim, look at that eagle way over by the big cypress tree.” As I strained to see what he was talking about, he would take a quick slug from the pint bottle hidden in his tackle box. As I got older, I  gradually caught on to the ruse.

My pre-adolescent fishing career almost ended one fine day on Orange Lake. I think that it may have happened on our last fishing trip but the actual sequence of events is a little hazy. We were trolling, which means that our fishing poles and rods were sticking out the side of the boat, and the boat motor was running at a very slow speed. Trolling was usually boring but on this day, it got interesting in a flash.

I happened to glance toward the stern of the boat and noticed my father using a paddle in the fashion of a sailboat rudder. It was not unlike the way he stuck his arm out of the car window. Being ever fascinated by his actions, I proceeded to pick up a small canoe paddle lying under my seat in the bow. Not being versed in the principles of fluid dynamics at this point in my imminently endangered life, I stuck the paddle into the water at a 90 degree angle to the boat. It's amazing what a difference a few degrees makes.

Daddy was at that precise moment looking at his fishing lines for signs of a bite. So it appears that no one witnessed the brief, though I imagine, exceptionally graceful parabolic arc my body scribed through the air before plunging into the murky depths of Orange Lake. I vaguely remember being suddenly wet and greatly fearful of being eaten by a school of giant bass. That fear was likely induced by my guilt for snaring so many of their species with hook and worm. Not to mention the gutting, cooking and eating that followed.

My grade for attending that first experiential class in Fluid Dynamics 101: 4.0!

I regained consciousness lying over one of the seats, on my stomach, wondering why I was staring at the bottom of the boat. Had a monster bass, not liking the taste of this particular country boy, spit me back?

I became aware of someone pushing on my back in a successful effort to pump water out of my lungs. This was followed by much spitting and coughing on my part. I might mention here that my near death experience taught me how easy it would be to die from drowning. Fortunately, and forever enhancing his position as my personal hero, Daddy had reached out and saved my life.

Back at the fish camp when the locals fellows asked why I was soaking wet, daddy loudly related as to how he had looked up from the business of fishing and realized with a start that I had suddenly disappeared. The cap I was wearing was floating in one direction, my life jacket in another and the paddle in yet another. He reacted rapidly to shut off the motor and quickly located me by the churning white-water created by my valiant battle with the family of gigantic avenging bass. Everyone thought it was just hilarious... except me.

These early days with DaddyBoy were mostly idyllic. When I was twelve (1952), my mother left my father for reasons I didn’t understand until I was much older. In time, I learned that he was an alcoholic, he liked to gamble a little too much, and, possibly had a wandering eye for the ladies. But from a child’s point of view, he was my daddy and I loved him dearly. When my mother told me she was leaving him, I fell to floor crying. I was devastated.

My mother, my three sisters and I moved to Jacksonville, Florida to live with my grandparents. My parents had obtained a legal separation agreement but never got a divorce. Neither of them ever remarried. Losing the daddy of my childhood was a sad, frightening and confusing experience. I remember being depressed and lonely for much of the time through adolescence. I wanted to know whose fault it was... who to blame.

My brother Dan was born shortly after we left Gainesville.  I asked him to write about his experience of our father.

Early one morning in August 1953, I woke up and sneaked out of the house in Jacksonville. I grabbed the Army backpack that I had hidden outside and hopped on my bicycle. I was running away to be with my father and from the shame of failing the seventh grade.

Somewhere outside of Jacksonville, the bicycle had a flat tire. In 1953 this stretch of Normandy Blvd. was basically wilderness and I had not prepared for a flat tire. I hid the bike and backpack in some palmetto bushes and started hitchhiking.

Since traffic was very light it took a long time to catch a ride. So I walked and walked... and walked. It was August and very hot. I remember getting two rides and eventually reaching the outskirts of Ocala 102 miles later. It was getting dark when my father pulled up in his 1951 Ford. I was exhausted, sunburned and my inner thighs were chaffed from walking and sweating for so long in the Florida heat.

After several days I agreed, not that I had a choice, to return to Jacksonville to attend school at the newly built Paxon Jr-Sr High school. Mother agreed to let me spend the following summer with Daddy.

On the way back to Jacksonville we stopped to pick up my bicycle and back pack. Hidden in my back pack was a dog-eared copy of I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane. It was a book that no God-fearing Christian boy should be caught with. Obviously, my fear of God was greatly diminished by my adolescent interest in sex. It was a pretty mild book by today's standards but in 1953 it was hot stuff.

As I was recently trying to organize the mass confusion that is my spare bedroom/storage room/computer room I found a photo (below) among my deceased mother's records that brought back these memories. Chris' car in the photo was a cream colored 1951 Ford with a red interior. I believe that this is the same car that he was driving when he almost died in the train-auto accident several years later. The picture below was taken on August 12, 1953, according to the date on the back of the photo.

In 1954 my father was in a terrible auto-train accident which almost killed him. Though he survived, he was impaired both mentally and physically for the rest of his life. After an extended recovery period he spent the rest of his life in Gainesville with his parents.

I like to imagine that if he had not been in the accident and had lived long enough, my father might have found the help he needed. There were signs that he was searching for a solution. He tried to seek psychological help but that failed. My mother says that his ego got in the way. He even tried Alcoholics Anonymous.

I remember that my father took me to an AA meeting once in an effort to show me he was sincere. The room was filled with the heavy haze of cigarette smoke and most of the men were drinking coffee. No alcohol allowed… but lots of nicotine and caffeine.

In my teen years, and despite the accident, I started to blame my father  for my parent’s separation. For many years, including my four years in the Air Force, I would not read or answer his letters. As I grew older, I learned more about life and had my own experiences with addiction. In recent years, I have come to better understand and eventually forgive him.

Unfortunately, I was not able to let him know of my feelings. He died in the Veterans Administration Hospital in Gainesville in 1972. His death was from “Pulmonary insufficiency (Incomplete closure of the pulmonary valve in the heart), inanition (lack of nutrition), and Carcinoma (Cancer) of the right lung.”  He was 56 years old.

Despite the harm his behavior caused to himself and others, I believe today that my father was a good man driven by the demons of his own family dynamics. From my mother and other relatives, I have learned that he suffered periods of deep depression. It was thought that he may have been sexually abused as a child. I am convinced from reading about alcoholism and addiction that he experienced tremendous emotional pain as his disease progressed. His drinking and gambling were, possibly, his attempts to self-medicate those dark memories. They only made matters worse.

Despite or perhaps because of that awful accident, my father was trying to better himself. He took remedial classes at Sante Fe Community College to prepare for the GED test. He wanted to finally complete his high school education.

Alcoholics and other addicts are shame driven. Therapist/writer/recovering alcoholic John Bradshaw explains shame by contrasting it with guilt. Guilt feelings inform you that you have done something wrong and need to make amends; shame informs you that you are wrong to the very core of your being and that you are irredeemable.

Shamed based people either feel that they are less than or better than other human beings. There is no in-between. They can't be happy just being human.

I have no proof but I believe that the unacknowledged, untreated abuse that my father suffered as a child was the source of his shame. This is a possible explanation for his behavior, not an excuse. Since he could not find a cure, he unintentionally passed it on to me and to my siblings by abusive behavior such as abandonment and neglect.

Those shameful feelings accompanied me into adulthood and eventually drove me into counseling and therapy. The help I received in turn, led me to an Adult Children of Alcoholics program, and from there to discovering and becoming an activist in the “Men’s Movement."

Today I spend my free time as an advocate for positive masculinity by maintaining TheMensCenter.com and MENSIGHT Magazine websites. TheMensCenter.com is an internet resource index of the issues that men face today and the resources that are available. MENSIGHT is a male positive, internet magazine that highlights the positive aspects of becoming a man though books, articles, news and columns.

I couldn't save my father but my hope is that through our efforts other men will be able to find the help they are seeking.

I dedicate this article to the memory of my father, Chris Franklin Bracewell.
 May he rest in peace. I love you daddy.

Jim Bracewell, president, The Men's Resource Network, Inc., a 501 (c)(3), non-profit org.
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Copyright 2004 Jim Bracewell, all rights reserved