fathers-and-sons – Frank is Emptiness

Once Upon a Time

August 15th, 2026

I was sitting on the back porch of Hans’ double wide, soaking up the Texas heat and listening to Hans talk about his time in Iraq. Hans had a Lime-A-Rita in one hand and a Pall Mall in the other. As his wont, my son started telling a tale about his deployment. It went like this:

Once upon a time, a group of British soldiers were attached to Hans’ unit. The reasons for this are obscure. However, Hans became friendly with the Brits, possibly because they always had a sufficient supply of alcohol. In any case, there was an officer among the Brits who was a sniper. He used a Bartlett 50 Cal rifle in his work. He took a liking to Hans and insisted on having Hans accompany him on a couple missions. Hans is a gun enthusiast, and at that time he was an excellent shot.

On one outing, the lieutenant set up his 50 Cal and told Hans,

“See that camel? Shoot it.”

Hans protested, “Why? It’s somebody’s camel.”

The officer blandly told Hans, “Just shoot the camel”.

Hans did. He damn near vaporized the animal.

On another excursion, Hans was supposed to be the lieutenant’s radio man. The Brit told Hans to let him handle the radio. He had a different task for my son.

Once again, the sniper set up his rifle. He asked Hans to look through the scope. He told him, “Adjust the magnification to 3x.”

Then he asked Hans, “Do you see that black dot on the horizon?”

Hans did, and the Brit told him, “Adjust it to 8x.”

Then he asked Hans, “Do you see the SUV?”

Hans did. The sniper told him, “Shoot it. Aim for the hood.”

Hans fired. The round hit the driver’s door and the car exploded.

The lieutenant called back to the FOB to tell them they were coming back.

At the base, Hans got chewed out for letting the sniper make the calls. Hans replied, “He’s a lieutenant! I’m a PFC!”

I was lying awake last night thinking about Hans’ story. His tales often disturb me. I sometimes wonder if things really occurred the way he said. If his narrative was a work of fiction, any editor worth his salt would reject it out of hand. Hans’ stories are rife with plot holes, inconsistencies, and numerous loose ends. Oddly enough, it’s those very things that make me believe Hans, because many events in my life are just as messy and confusing. A good novel or short story has internal consistency. Real life usually does not.

Another reason that I find Hans’ narrative plausible is that he is never the hero in his stories. He doesn’t come across like a whiskey warrior. He describes himself mostly as an unlucky mensch who has found himself in a situation involving intense heat. sand, and seemingly endless stupidity.

His stories often leave a bad taste in my mouth. My reaction is typically, “That is fucked up”. When Hans tells me about his life in Iraq, the episodes are always, at best, morally ambiguous. There nothing uplifting, or even logical about his experiences, but apparently these things happened.

I am grateful that Hans talk to me about Iraq. It seems to help him. He needs to tell somebody about what happened there. It might as well be me.

Hans came back damaged. I don’t say that he came home, because I don’t think he really ever did. Part of him is still in Iraq, and that part will never come home.

What’s the Deal with your Dad?

August 12th 2026

My son, Hans, sometimes tells me stories of his youth without any warning. He did that today. He is a combat vet from the most recent Iraq War (deployed there in 2011). I’m a veteran too, but I am Cold War vintage. Anyway, out of the blue, he started telling me about how he enlisted in the Army back in 2009.

Hans said that his recruiter wanted him to meet and have dinner with their “liaison”. Hans did not realize until later that the liaison was in the FBI and Hans was meeting with him for a background check. Apparently, every 19 Kilo (armor crewmember for Abrams tanks) needs a secret clearance. Hans figured out that the session was going to be an interview when the FBI guy opened up a folder.

Hans asked him, “Do you mind if I get a beer?”

The interviewer said, “Go ahead.”

Hans asked him, “Are you buying?”

The FBI guy said that he would.

So, Hans was drinking beer while answering questions. Apparently, he answered them all to the satisfaction of his interrogator. There came one last question from the man with the folder:

“This isn’t really a red flag, but what’s the deal with your dad?”

Hans wasn’t expecting that one. He explained to the FBI official that he didn’t know what the deal was. He also made it clear to his questioner that he was not his dad.

The guy closed up his folder and said, “It’s okay. I just have to ask these questions.”

It should be noted at this point that I got involved in the antiwar movement just prior to the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003. I did that partly to keep Hans from going to war, which he did anyway. I stayed active in the movement even after Hans enlisted and got deployed. I am still connected with antiwar groups, although it’s now in a more peripheral way.

Hans has told me repeatedly over the years, “Dad, you’re on a list.”

I guess I matter enough that enough that the government has a file on me.

Fathers and their Children

June 21st, 2026

“And I divvied up my anger into 30 separate parts
Keep the bad – in my liver and the rest around my heart
I’m still angry at my parents for what their parents did to them
But it’s a start”

lyrics from Growing Sideways by Noah Kahan

It’s Father’s Day again. This particular holiday carries a lot of baggage. It always seems to remind me of TV shows like Little House on the Prairie or The Waltons where the father is always firm but fair, strong yet compassionate. I’m not sure that I have ever met a guy like that. I’ve only met good but flawed men. Most of them try to be decent fathers but frequently fail in some way.

I know guys who describe their fathers as if they were philosopher kings. Their stories of their dads depict these men as being consistently wise and noble. Perhaps such men exist, but I don’t know where they are, except in the selective memories of their adult children.

On this particular Father’s Day, none of our three children came to visit me. One lives over a thousand miles away in Texas with his family. One of them is currently unavailable due to a court decision. One of them has made it clear that he never wants to see me again. This situation is depressing, but probably not all that rare. Relationships between fathers and their kids tend to be fraught. None of this is new.

The Bible, in particular the Hebrew scriptures, has numerous examples of fathers struggling with their offspring. Adam had issues with his two boys, Cain and Abel. Adam had no clue how to raise children, and his sons didn’t know how to play nice. Abraham certainly had a tense relationship with Isaac, especially after he tried to kill his son. If Abraham had tried that in our day and age, the police and CPS would have been involved immediately. Isaac had to deal with Jacob and Esau. Those two were trying hard to replicate Cain and Abel’s death match. Jacob had twelve boys and he decided to favor Joseph over all of his siblings. Once again, there was almost a fratricide. David and Absolom come later in the narrative. David wept too late for his dead child. It just goes on and on and on.

Are there any lessons from these grim tales? Well, fathers are mere mortals. We sometimes forget that, especially on Father’s Day.

Karin, Asher, and I went to Mass this morning. Asher was restless in church, which is not at all unusual. He’s our grandson, and he’s a five-year-old. Asher needed to go to the bathroom just as the priest was starting his homily (sermon). That was excellent timing on Asher’s part. Unfortunately, the pastor was still preaching when we returned to the pew.

Asher seemed tired. So, he sat on my lap in the pew, and he rested his head in the hollow of my right shoulder. The priest was talking about how Jesus told his disciples to not to fear, and then he went into a story about how when he was a child, he and his siblings always felt safe when their daddy was at home. The implication was, since God is the ultimate Daddy, then when we are close to God, there is nothing to fear.

This line of thinking makes sense to people whose father was a man who provided a safe and secure home environment. What about people who grew up with a father who could go from a smile to an outburst of rage in the blink of an eye? What about growing up with a dad who was paranoid and always distrustful? What about living with a man who was in some way utterly terrifying at times? For the people in the pews, like me, who experienced that kind of upbringing, imagining God as a father is not a good idea.

I passed on the damage to our kids. I did some things to them that my father did to me, and I drank too much. I tried to do the right things, but I fell short. Noah Kahan had it right. My kids are still angry with me for what my parents did to me. Trauma is the gift that just keeps giving.

Asher sat on my lap and dozed during the rest of the Mass. I held him and rubbed his back sometimes. At the end of the service, the priest asked all the fathers to stand up for a blessing. I didn’t. I thought to myself,

“Just shut up. I’m busy.”

I didn’t want the blessing. It doesn’t sit well with me when a man who has never raised a child decides to tell some other guys what great role models they are. Also, I didn’t feel like I deserved a blessing. I just want to do my job. I love Asher, and even after so many years, I still don’t really know how care for a little kid. Every day is a new adventure. Every day he is a new boy, in some way a stranger to me.

Maybe I can do right by Asher. That’s all I really want to do.