Tuesday, June 17th, 2014


I won’t retract my last blog/aricle/column/too many words for today’s world.
I didn’t like it when I re-read it.
Not because it wasn’t “good”.
But because it wasn’t truth–est.

Here’s the deal.
I want to write about my dad.
He was a big hearted blue collar union guy angry at the world’s pain and injustice.
Boy could he rant and clear a Thanksgiving table.

He was a sturdy feminist.
He stood up against all my uncles sending me to a fine Liberal Arts college and raged when they said it was to get an expensive MRS degree.
He jumped out a window in 8th grade and left school when his honesty was questioned.  He rode the rails for a year.  

His dad walked away from my dad and his sister and his mom
She ran a boarding house to survive.
My dad was sexually abused by one of the boarders, who would not pass any butter to my dad at the common table in a weird power play. (We always had stock piles of real butter in my childhood home.  No oleo-margarine for my dad)  Later in his life a gay gentleman asked my dad to be his lover and in return, he would send my dad to Brown.  My dad regretted saying, “no”.

He loved learning and could win any Double Jeopardy game with odd facts.
His favorite possession was a collection of the Harvard Classics which I now treasure.  

He was an extrovert and a willing adventurer. It always took twice as long to go anywhere with him because he would make a friend and find some odd connection which he would marvel at while we rolled our eyes.  He became a hugger late in life. Through very odd circumstances, he attended a workshop with me (an adventure)  and revealed his sexual abuse.  Well, it was so touching that he got a standing hug from all the participants and became everyone’s dad. He was touchingly released from his wound. AND SO he became a hugging wild man. My mom, timid and reserved by nature, would complain, “He needs to ask people if they want a hug.”  And so he did.  And did. And did.

I’ll end here after having given you a flavor of my dad.
His name was Withington Robert Dixon.
No wonder he was called “Bud”

Now I feel better. Truer.


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