There may be those who can’t understand how a son could still love a father after all that which has already been described. The answer, even from a comparatively young age is … “God’s grace.” It could be easily said that I hated those who had treated Dad so badly. His own father never had a word of tenderness for him and he never passed on to his son some life skills that Dad could have plied to make his way. His half-siblings never did anything but give him abuse. Dad’s grandmother, who was important in his life, turned her back on him in the end. Even on a macro scale, Dad was born during the depression when rural people like his mother often didn’t own a pot to pee in. Then when Dad gets to his teen years the Government is pursuing policies to shut down small landholding farmers. “Get big or get out” becomes the new cry and Dad and his people had no capacity to “Get big.”

Sure, I get it that every man has to shoulder and be responsible for his own life but realizing that doesn’t mean an observer can’t look on from the outside and see that someone, quite in God’s providence, was dealt a difficult hand. Dad was dealt a difficult hand and because of that I never hated his person or him as a father, though my disposition on his general treatment of me was never on the favorable side.

My relationship with Dad never straightened out. There is no, “and they lived happily ever after to this story,” therefore one should not wait for that part of the story to eventually rise. There is no denouement to the story that resolves all loose ends. If there had been, I may not be writing about this here.

Eventually, the divorce comes. Dad tells Mom that “I don’t really want the children but because you do, I will eventually gain them.” And the ironic thing is that is exactly what happened in the short term with my siblings. Dad was a malevolent genius in many ways and his manipulation to get custody of the children was masterful. Mom was broken-hearted.

However, Dad did not “get me.” He had promised to let me graduate from the Sturgis schools system having attended that school system all my life. He was good to his promise the 2nd half of my Junior year letting me drive 30 some miles with my siblings every morning to Sturgis. However, in the summer preceding my Sr. year he let me know that he was going to break his promise and force me to attend the local high school in the mini hood. I was not cooperative in terms of the broken promise and he tossed me from the house. After a few weeks of trying and actually attending a High School in Grand Rapids for a couple of weeks, it became clear that I wasn’t a fit for my Mother’s new living arrangement either. In God’s providence, I ended up living with a family I knew from the Church we attended in Sturgis that Sr. year, and I was able to graduate from Sturgis High School. (How that happened is another story.)

At this point, Dad, except for intermittent contact falls out of my life for a season.  His second marriage had shut down the beatings before I was tossed from his new living arrangement in Three Rivers. His second wife had witnessed one of those beatings soon after their wedding and she told him, “If I ever see that again with any of your children I am leaving.” Dad never touched me again though his rantings and psychological twist games continued unabated for the few months I lived there.

I turned 18 the summer after I graduated High School. I visited Dad that day at his workplace which was just a few blocks from where I lived that final year. I wanted to talk to him about something and all he would say was, “You are 18 now. You are a man. You make your own decisions. You don’t need me.” He said it several times, making it clear, so it seemed to be, that he was done being my parent. I just left shaking my head.

He was true to his word. Though he did attend my High School graduation in May of 77 (where there was a slight confrontation with one of his ex-brother-in-laws) Dad did not attend my college graduation or even my wedding. I phoned him occasionally but the conversations were typically short. I would also spend some time at his place in Three Rivers during the college summers but I never lived there. I honestly think that at this time Dad was closer to his step-sons than he was to me.

In the early 80’s Dad lost a lucrative job that he had finally gained for a year or two, (again … that’s another story), and with the loss of the job, he moved to Florida with his second wife Marcia. Jane and I visited one Christmas when we were in the Seminary in South Carolina and Dad and Marcia visited us once in the hovel we were living in at the time.

So, contact was existent but minimal… until Marcia died unexpectedly at 51 years of age. In retrospect, Marcia was probably, in many respects the best thing that had ever happened to Dad. She had introduced stability into his life that had never been present prior. She was both kind and fastidious and that brought order and structure into Dad’s life. They were married for roughly 10 years give or take and when she died, combined with Dad losing another pretty lucrative position in Florida, Dad hit the skids. He closed down shop in Florida and packed what few belongings he hadn’t gotten rid of into his car, along with his mangy Lhaso Apso (Pixie) and yappy Chihuahua (Guadalupe), and hit the road to “visit” his children.

Except it wasn’t just a visit. Dad had decided, at age 50, that he was going to spend the rest of his life traveling back and forth between his three children. He was done with the whole working thing. He would live with them. Now, he never announced this but that was the pattern that was evolving. All three of his children were newly married and were at a stage of life that made taking care of a parent more than difficult. Jane and I were living with our baby in a place that should have been condemned as unfit for living and in rolls Dad. Now, we had no problem with a visit but it soon became evident that this was more than a visit.

9 months later Dad is still living with us along with his two dogs. We actually got rid of our own dog (Angel) that Jane dearly loved because there was just no way that little “trailer” could navigate with three house dogs, three adults, and a baby. Keep in mind that I am still in Seminary and am only working part-time. Looking back I don’t know how we did it, especially in light of Dad seemingly working to poison the relationship between Jane and myself. Dad, just was not a mentally healthy person and that lack of mental health had a way of exhausting one.

What were we to do? No Son can tell his father to “get out of here,” when the Son knows that Dad has nowhere to go, and no skill set to gain decent employment. Dad had already stayed long intervals with my siblings and knew that an encore with them was not going to be well accepted. We were stuck.

Over the course of time, we turned the heat up little by little, and eventually Dad took the hint that he was going to have to put his own roots down. He found a job as a Manager at a stop-and-go Gas-Station/grocery Mart which paid him enough as combined with his partial disability check from the FEDS to pay for a modest apartment and a second-hand vehicle.

Finally, Dad was on his own. Jane and I saw our little bird spread his own wings to fly. We were proud parents.

There were almost three years between our Laura-Jane’s birth and our Anna’s birth. That was quite the time span between the two, especially considering that Laura was not born until Jane was almost 29. We had been trying to get pregnant for some time to no avail. Almost immediately after Dad moved out, Jane was pregnant with Anna. Our neighbor lady next door had told Jane some months prior when Jane was lamenting to her about Jane’s lack of ability to get pregnant, “When your Father-in-law moves out you will get pregnant. Just you wait and see.” The neighbor lady was correct.

This brings us to a pause point. There is one more part to be written.

I thank God for my father if only because that is the father God determined for me to have and I believe that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. Being the son of David, if nothing else, gave me a certain resiliency and worked in me a certain compassion for people who in life were dealt a difficult hand. It also worked in me the realization that there are certain people one just can’t help and the insistence on trying to help them will only mean that their illness splashes on you and yours. Sometimes the best thing you can do for people you love but are beyond reach is nothing.

End Part II

Like nearly all sons, I loved and still love my Father. However, it is complicated.

David Lee McAtee was born in May 1936 in Marshall, Michigan to Carl and Eva (Bower) McAtee. Carl’s first wife had died in childbirth not long previously and had left him with a large number of children. Eva (my Grandmother) had been left at home to care for her aging father (David Ezra Bower) who had passed in January 1936. When her father died Eva was already carrying my father — David McAtee — in her womb. So, one can see it was a bit of a shotgun wedding and my Grandmother was at the wrong end of the shotgun. She had gone from being a caretaker for her aging parents to being a chief cook and bottle washer to Carl’s small tribe of children, not to mention the recipient, along with Dad, of Carl’s drunken beatings. Years later, Dad speculated that perhaps Carl was not his biological father.

Because of the above, my Grandmother and father fell into a kind of co-dependent relationship. Grandma was always protecting Dad almost till the day she died and Dad was by all indications a Mama’s boy almost till the day his mother died. I don’t fault either one of them for this even though it was never healthy. In light of the terror that Carl was in the home, it makes perfect sense. I am merely highlighting the facts.

When Dad’s Dad (Carl) died in 1952 there was a huge stink about the inheritance. The children from the previous marriage basically desired to strip clean my father from any of the tiny inheritance that Carl was leaving behind. Eventually, some townspeople raised a ruckus, and Dad was left with much of Carl’s hunting gear. Carl’s mother (my Great-grandmother — Eva Reid McAtee   — (who I vaguely remember) set that perceived wrong right by completely cutting Dad out of her will. Eva Reid McAtee (1877-1963) left a portion of her estate to everyone of her grandchildren except Dad.

While this begins to explain how it was that Dad was a hard man, of course, it doesn’t excuse it. My Father and his Mother were treated poorly by the McAtee family. As such, Dad grew up angry and his anger never really subsided for the whole of his life. Unfortunately, he carried many of the faults of his own father into his relationship with his children, particularly his oldest son.

After, Dad graduated high school it looks like he spent some time in the US military but even that is questionable. There is a photo of him in an army hospital being greeted by some known personage. There is also the fact that at some point Dad got a monthly check from the Feds for being a disabled vet and at his retirement had a full disabled American vet pension check coming monthly. However, in the past decade or so, new evidence has come to light that Dad’s service in the service was perhaps irregular. No one will now know for sure. It may be the case that Dad was given a medical discharge from being hurt in a parachute training program. I say “parachute training program” because Dad had all the insignia from that outfit.

Eventually, my folks were married in what can only be described as a “non-traditional” wedding service. There is one photo of the bride and groom with the parent(s) of each but the lack of a wedding dress is glaring. I have no idea of the circumstances surrounding my folk’s wedding. I know my Mother’s father (Carl Edward Jacobs) never cared for Dad and Dad never cared much for Carl Jacobs. If I had been Carl Jacobs I probably would not have liked Dad either but with my Mom’s family inlaws always seemed to end up as outlaws and Carl himself was not exactly Mr. Personality.

The marriage, by all accounts, started out well. Dad was working steadily and Mom was having babies — one baby in 1959, 1960, and 1961. Money was a problem as money always burned a hole in Dad’s pocket.  Somewhere around the late 60s, the small automotive cottage industry shop (Universal Deisal) where Dad was the Union President shut down. For years after that Dad never held a job that could provide for a family.

Then unemployed and still having back issues from his time jumping parachute Dad got hooked on prescription drugs. He subsequently had to spend time in a hospital in Blufton, Indiana to get clean. I still remember taking trips to Blufton to see Dad in the Hospital. Of course, I was too young at the time to really understand what was happening.

At home, especially as I recall, after his job loss Dad was not easy to be around. He seemed to incarnate some of the habits of child-rearing he learned from his own father. I recall the terror of seeing Dad beat my mother more than once and I likewise was the recipient many times of those same beatings. Only in the year before his death did Dad try to apologize for all that. It was awkward for him to apologize to his oldest son as one can easily imagine. He mumbled something about his own father and said he now wished he could’ve avoided that. There wasn’t much I could say in response. Responding with… “It’s OK Dad,” didn’t seem appropriate and neither did making a big deal of it. The apology and conversation lasted all of 30 seconds.

Dad did like to hunt and fish and whatever pleasant memories I have of my father is in the context of hunting or fishing. He owned three hunting dogs at any one time (Beagle [Fred], Golden Retriever [Rusty], a German Short Hair [Prince], and a English Retriever [Max]). In retrospect, I now realize that we couldn’t afford those animals but I sure enjoyed them. The dogs were well trained and knew their business. I spent much time tromping through the woods with Dad and the neighbors. We brought home rabbit, squirrel, pheasant, and venison. I learned to clean it (though I’ve now forgotten) and I learned to cook it. I had no problem eating it. Squirrels were often turned into squirrel dumplings. Rabbit and pheasant went right into the frying pan.

It seemed that Dad’s rougher edges subsided in the woods and on the lake. Years later I found myself regretting that Dad could not have found some kind of employment that would have put him daily in those settings.

The hunting trips were wonderful. Listening to our low-pitched beagle and the neighbor’s high-pitched beagle tracking rabbits remains a fond memory. On one deer hunting outing, Dad and I were coming out of some really thick underbrush without having seen anything all morning. I pushed on ahead because I just wanted to get out of that mess as soon as possible. When I emerged from the unforgiving underbrush upon the old country road, there before me in the open sorghum field across the road stood a half-dozen deer with more than one buck present. Dad was still laboring to get out I turned by 12 gauge into a Tommy gun and proceeded to miss every one of the deer.

Then there was the fishing. We lived on a lakeshore growing up (Minnewauken lake). It wasn’t much of a lake in looking back but it was enough to keep us provided with all the fish we could ever hope to eat. I actually have more memories of fishing by myself but there were times when Dad and I would go together. I have no memories have Dad being angry or upset while we were hunting or fishing. Dad would often fish with two poles simultaneously. He would use a cane-pole and set it under one of his legs and then he would use a regular fishing rod and reel to cast in and out. The funnier moments came when he would get two hits simultaneously. It was funny watching him try to manage both poles with energetic fish on the line.

Those were the pleasant memories. I wish they had been more frequent. More were the times when I was warding off blows or being bellowed at or weeping for my mother’s injuries. One time I had misplaced the shoehorn from the nail it was supposed to be kept hanging on. It was a Sunday morning of all times and the rage and beating for that misplaced shoehorn will never be forgotten. Another time I forgot my ball glove at school. Rinse and repeat.  I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard him through the years bellow, “You’re no son of mine.”

Time was also spent with Dad for a few years delivering papers on a Sunday morning (Detroit Free Press). Every Sunday two out of three of us siblings had to go with Dad to deliver papers. The person sitting in the back had to stuff the papers putting the ads inside the paper. The person sitting in the front was the runner who had to deliver papers to the doorstep when it wasn’t put in the paper box. I hated this routine. First, Dad was always himself out of sorts even more than usual having to get up that early in the morning. Second, there was no pleasing the man whether one was in the front seat or the back seat. Third, who wants to get up at 2 am on a Sunday morning to deliver papers? However, this was Dad’s attempt to provide for the family. We would typically get home at about 7 am get some breakfast, fall asleep for an hour before heading to church where I consistently slept through the sermon.

At about the age of 11 or so, Mom had understandably had enough. Dad left the house for a spell. I don’t remember how long. Long enough that once he returned it was odd to see him around. His departure was a hard time for us children. Dad was unemployed, depressed, and now living with his mother and step-father. Upon his visitation rights, we would go to see Dad but his mood was so black that it was extraordinarily difficult to navigate. We were children and somehow we were seemingly being expected to pull Dad out of his depression and slough of despond. Even at that young age, I wanted to somehow help him but I didn’t know-how.

Finally, the folks got back together but it never was better. They decided that Dad would be the Mr. Mom while Mom would work to bring in the money from her factory job. Dad was a lot of things but Mr. Mom was never going to be one of them. One time one of my siblings complained about the meal that Dad had served and the next thing you know they were face-first in their plate. Nobody complained ever again about the meals Dad cooked.

Finally, Dad got work as a bookkeeper for a local nursing home but the damage had already been done to the marriage. The income as a bookkeeper was better but it still was inadequate and so the marriage because of all that has been said here as well as other significant reasons that will remain unmentioned went up in flames. I was a sophomore in High school.

What I am about to say next, I have seen as a minister over and over again in other families that have gone the route of divorce. For the women (wives) especially, things never get better even after the divorce. Divorce merely exchanges one set of problems that come from a failed marriage for another set of problems that are now present with the divorce.

The same is true for children of divorce. They go from navigating one set of problems to having to navigate a different set of problems. I went from the problem of the presence of a wildman of a father to the problem of being far more independent than I had any business being at that age. Then there were the whole custody fights, being told at 16 that you will have to choose which parent you will live with (what 16 year old wants to be put in the position of having to make that kind of decision?) the parents badmouthing each other seeking subtly and not so subtly to curry favor of the children by casting the other parent in a negative light, being placed in schools that your completely unfamiliar with, etc.

And Dad could’ve avoided all of that if he had just loved his wife as Christ loved the Church.

End Part I