You know, sometimes if I sit and think for a while about my upbringing, I'm often left scratching my head. I know my mom and her side of the family just fine, and I'm told that I spent plenty of time with my dad's side of the family, but I honestly don't remember... I don't know my dad. I barely remember his voice, and best I can tell, he's got no interest in knowing me. That depresses the hell out of me, and scares me to be a father. It makes me think that maybe somehow, some way, I've inherited his disassociation with his own children. I don't know why he never talked to me or my siblings... I know my mom didn't stop him from talking to us. I don't even know what he does for a living. I think the only thing I know of him is a pile of Elvis records my mom gave to me when we were living in Athens. I think the Blue Hawaii soundtrack was in there... that's about it. I sometimes wish he had been there for me. I wish I at least knew what he'd been like so I can feel something other than indifference toward him.
