A Life Trapped in Amber

{Prompt: What was your dad like? What do you remember most vividly about him?}

My father passed away 48 years ago, on February 2, 1977.  

I was 12 years old at the time.  

He left a lasting impression, but after 48 years, my memory of him has faded.

My memory of him is more like a dream.  There is a nugget of truth to the memory, a little bit of what might have been real. But the edges are fuzzy, and the full extent of the real life experience is missing.

I remember bouncing on his knee as a toddler.

I remember that he showed me how to draw calligraphy as a school child.  

I remember driving to the SPCA to pick out a puppy, and picking out the dog’s name from a street sign that we passed on the way back home.  

I remember that he created a painted-flower garden spanning at least four of the aluminum cabinet doors above the kitchen countertop, using little hand cut stamps and Testors model paint.

But none of those memories really capture the essence of the man.

I remember, more vividly perhaps, the unpleasant times — often a punishment for childhood misbehavior.

I recall being sent to the back yard to cut myself a switch, for some transgression that I was beginning to regret.  The switching itself was quite mild I’m sure, seeing as I don’t really remember that part.  I don’t recall ever suffering a bruise or welt from his punishment.

In fact, punishment was always dealt out as justice.  Mom would warn us (my brother and I) that if we didn’t listen, and behave, she would have to tell our Dad how we acted when he got home. And the repercussions (which were implied) were much to be feared. 

Only once can I recall my father losing his temper with me.  

I must have been about five, and I was having a complete meltdown, for reasons I can’t fathom. My mother was at the end of her wits, and sent my father to talk to me (to assess the nature of my grievances, I like to think).  

I completely lost my mind — yelling about my mom and calling her names.  I might have called her a bitch, or something like that. I can’t remember what curse words I had in my arsenal. But that was about the level of my venom, at the time.  

The next thing I knew I was on the ground, realizing that I just got slapped, good and hard — hard enough to knock me off my feet and leave me in a stunned silence.  

I really don’t remember what happened after that, but I certainly felt ashamed of my behavior. I started to realize that my rage had real consequences.

At any rate, the argument — the altercation — was over.  I think my father was a little ashamed himself, too.  Maybe he apologized later… or maybe I did.

Though my father was the disciplinarian, he may have been in need of a little discipline, himself.  He often did things that were impetuous.  I took it for granted then, but I think he really was still young and impulsive.  (I don’t know if this is proof, but he did join the Marine Corps at age 20, leaving his home in New York and moving to South Carolina.)  

He bought a motorcycle once. It kind of showed up out of the blue.  I don’t know if there was any discussion prior to the purchase, but I do remember many a night when our parents argued after we had been sent to bed.

My father opened a hobby shop while he was still working a steady job as a draftsman for an electronic switch-making company, called Stackpole.  

I don’t know if it was meant to be a side hustle or a sort of private getaway, away from home. What it became was a way for him to run a business, hang out with friends and customers, and do the things that he really enjoyed.  He built a “sand table” — something bigger than a pool table, with sand that could be molded into a landscape and modeled to look like a battleground.  At a time when role-playing games were in their infancy, he and his friends were playing out simulated war scenarios in the basement of a small business building in Glenwood South.

I would describe my father as vulnerable, flawed, and human; but always trying… aspiring to be good… aspiring to be a good role model.  

I don’t think I really knew him. I don’t think any child really knows their parents, at least not fully.

It’s painful to be so close to someone — to have loved them and to know that they loved you, and yet not to know them — to know them less than you know a friend or a classmate.

With the benefit of time… and age… and experience, I feel like I understand my father now, as a person, much more than I did 48 years ago… or even 10 years ago.  For example, I know now that my father was a real, invested member of our church — that he didn’t only attend church to make my mother happy, but he was fully committed — teaching Sunday School and making friends in the congregation.  

My mother told me recently that when he died, she thought that the funeral could be held in the church chapel, but the preacher said that the chapel would be too small.  And he was right. When the funeral was held, the church was as full as it ever was at an 11 o’clock service.  

I didn’t understand, really, why it should be so full. I guess I had such a private and personal relationship with my father, and such a limited insight into his interpersonal relationships at work and with friends that I didn’t grasp the extent of his life outside the home.

On the whole, I would describe my father, Gerald Fredric Gallup (Gerry) as a wonderful father, who loved and cherished his children: a strict disciplinarian and dispenser of justice, with the military experience to back it up; an artist and a free spirit, who enjoyed painting, design, creative play, and adventure; a married man, trying to be a supportive and equal partner in the marriage, while carving out time and space for his own enjoyment; a responsible member of the community, at work, and at church, who was…

…who was… I don’t know. I don’t know what were his thoughts… his cares… his ambitions. His worries… his concerns… his fears.

And I will never know.

Ever.

For me his life was trapped in amber — like a hazy dream.

I only knew him as a son knows his father. I can only imagine the rest.

Gerald and Margaret Gallup in the mid-70s.

The Gallup Family in an early 70s photo for Hayes Barton United Methodist Church. (from left to right: Mike, Gerry, Steve, Meg)

Typical 1968 black-and-white photo of Gerald Gallup (age 32), with sons, Steve (age 4), and Mike (age 6).