James E. Stochl, Sr.

My brother called me this morning to say that my dad had passed away last night, due to a heart attack. He was 74. He was in great shape, and in great spirits, and was working hard on his many household projects. His death took me by surprise, to say the least.

Like many eldest sons, I had a rocky relationship with my dad. We were very much alike in many ways. We both have a tendency to pride, and being judgmental. We both hold grudges, far longer than should be allowed. My dad has not spoken to his own brother since the mid-1960's over a dispute concerning their mother's memorial service. Now that is a world class grudge! And I have been known to carry on some of those.

When my dad left us in 1970 and divorced my mom, I was very angry at him. And I nurtured that anger for many years. As a teenager, I both admired my dad, and hated him. I admired his intellect, his hard work, his sense of self-assurance, his commitment to do the right thing, and his discipline. The last trait, discipline, is one that I never really picked up, to me eternal regret.

After the divorce was final, my mom and brother and I moved to California to be with my mom's extended family. A new start, as it were. But nobody told me that for there to be a new start, one must leave some of the old baggage behind. I took some old baggage with me, especially a grudge against my dad for "abandoning us." I must say, though, that my dad was a man of principle. He sent child support and alimony every month, the same day, as long as he was required by the divorce agreement. I took this for granted at the time. But it was much later that I learned that this was not often the case, as I learned from friends about their "deadbeat dads."

Still, I was not happy. Our family dynamic was such that no one talked about these sorts of things. You just accepted it and moved on. Well, there is some wisdom to that. But I needed to know some things. Why did my dad divorce my mom, and leave my brother and me? Being the eldest, I thought it was my fault.

The summer of 1970 was a hard one for me. My friends began experimenting with stealing, shoplifting. We had contests to see who could steal the most things, the most expensive things, etc. I had, from time to time, taken a few coins from my mom's or dad's dresser at home. But no shoplifting. But one day, I went to the local mall, Apache Plaza, and was determined to steal something from every store in the mall.

I succeeded, too. I stole something from many of the stores, the final one being Wards. From Wards, I stole a fishing lure. I had on a blue windbreaker, and must have looked like the Michelin Man walking out of the mall with all this stuff under my jacket. A security guard stopped me, and walked me back through the store, and into his office. After a lecture, and some paperwork, I was turned over to the police, and given a ride home.

My face was hot with shame, as I was forced to tell my mom and dad what I had done. The reaction was anger, and silence. They were clearly disappointed with me, as I was with myself. I went to bed that night, hoping to never wake up again. But I did. The issue was never brought up again, but I always felt it was being hung over my head. One more failure for the boy.

My dad left the house, moved out, several weeks later. And I guess I had always equated the two events: my getting caught for stealing, and my dad's leaving the family. As I got older, I saw that one had virtually nothing to do with the other.

Still, there was little dscussion in our house, or when my brother and I would go visit my dad on weekends. There were some topics that were not to be spoken of. Ever. But I wanted to know! I lost my father in 1970, and felt personally rejected. Today, however, was the final loss. And I am a poorer man for it. I thought there was going to be some time to work some of these things out. I have discovered that it is much easier to burn bridges than to build them!

There were some elements of raproachment, though. My dad came to my wedding in 1980. He always sent birthday and Christmas cards, though I suspect Susan, his new wife, had more to do with that. We visited several times. A breakthrough of sorts was my brother's second wedding, which my dad attended. We had a nice conversation then. At the time, I wrote him some letters expressing some of my past hurts and misgivings and anger, and seeking for answers. Susan answered the letters, and it was a cathartic process. Still, my dad never ansewred them.

In 1998, Dave and I flew back to MN to work on the lake cabin. (Man, was it that long ago?) This little fishing cabin had been built in the 1940's, we think. And it is where we spent our summers as kids. Dad and Susan built a new house into the bank of the lake, just up the hill from the old cabin. Part of building the house, I guess, was the agreement to tear down the old cabin. So Dad and Dave and I worked for a week, and were pretty successful at tearing the cabin down.

That week was one of the best weeks of my life. I came to think that perhaps some men cannot or will not talk verbally, but communication can happen at other levels. Working together with Dad and Dave drew me closer to them than I had ever been. We discovered some wonderful things about the cabin. The 2x4's were actually 2 inches by 4 inches, and made of clear (no knots) cedar. Lovely wood, and very straight. Of course, it was saved for later use! At left is a picture of my dad and me pushing over one of the last walls of the cabin. I think my dad enjoyed the week together with his two sons, but was never sure.

My dad loved to work. He loved tools. He loved building things. He seemed to have a restlessness about working. As a kid, the cabin meant relaxing. For my dad, the cabin meant work. Well, mostly work, and some fishing! Every once in a while, I would volunteer to help my dad. Of course, my volunteering usually meant that the project would take twice as long to finish! There were moments when I would do what he asked me to do, drive a nail or cut a board, and he would say, "Well done, Jim." Whenever I heard that, I figured I had died and gone to heaven. Unfortunately, those words were extremely rare from him, which made them all the more valuable. The words I wanted to most hear from him, I never heard. Either, "I love you, son" or "I am proud of you, son" were never uttered by him. And I am the poorer for it. This was the view from the cabin, south, on Lake Sylvia. Notice we were still demolishing the flooring.

From what I knw, my dad had few friends, but those he had, he was fiercely loyal to. Most of his friends were from his days as a university professor. When he took early retirement, he was a pretty happy man. He still loved to teach, and would teach some extension courses in southern and central MN. But mostly, he worked about the cabin.

So the man I bothed feared and admired, loved and hated, is now gone. I am now an orphan, having no living parents, my mom having passed away 18 months ago, at 72. I am a richer man for being my father's son. And I am a poorer one for his death. May his soul find peace.