My Dad

I don’t want to write this blog, to be perfectly honest. I’ve been putting it off. God knows that I’ve got plenty on my plate to keep me busy, from work-work to housework to my friends and family here in Wisconsin. Many excuses to keep me from having to put all things things churning around in my head and heart into words. I’ve been living perfectly content in that whole “denial” stage of grief, so why rock the boat?

But a writer is who I am. This is something I have to do. So here goes.

Some of you may already know that my father, Jimmie Chambers, passed away on September 13, 2008. He was sixty-three years old and suffered from several chronic health problems—none of which was severe enough where any of us had a clue that he would be taken from us so early. He left behind his wife of 34 years, my mother Ann Chambers, my sisters Bambi and Stacy, myself, and four grandchildren (Melanie, Elizabeth, Alexander, and Joshua)—along with many relatives and countless friends.

But who was my father? I’m not going to even attempt to write any sort of biography here. I couldn’t do it justice at this point, and my brain isn’t up to the task or organizing anything. The easiest way to get a glimpse of my father is to take a look at me and my life. I owe a huge chunk of who I am to my Dad.

Music

Any friend of mine knows that I’m a musical person to the point of being ridiculous. If you say something reminds me of song lyrics I might just burst into song right in front of you. I definitely owe Mom for the piano lessons and the prodding, but it was Dad who gave me the love of music, a bit of inherited talent, and my singing voice—which sounds a lot like his when I get into my higher range.

I have no idea when or where Dad started playing the guitar and singing. If I remember correctly he learned to play from a friend while he was in the Navy, and the story goes that he when he and a buddy jumped ship he took an unscheduled trip around Europe virtually penniless, just playing and singing for tips at cafes and on street corners.

Later on, Dad was a rhythm guitarist and backup singer in a cover band. He loved the Beatles, so much that his clothes and hairstyle for a period of his life heavily reflect his idol—John Lennon. When I was a little boy, he would pull out his acoustic guitar and sing to me before bed. My favorite was “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison, a song that we played at his funeral.

I didn’t always agree with Dad’s taste in music (or movies and alcoholic beverages for that matter—the man thought Starship Troopers was robbed at the Oscars and that Cold Duck was delicious wine). I was with him on the Beatles, like some ABBA, but couldn’t make sense of his love for “MMMBop” by Hanson. When it came to anything, he would just say “I like what I like.” No way to argue that one.

Games

My Dad was playing with me for as long as I can remember, and anyone who’s ever seen my Dad with a baby or toddler knows that he was willing to get down on his hands and knees and play. If it was as simple as peek-a-boo or a goofy “magic” trick where he makes a toy disappear or reappear, he was ready to go. As we got older Dad would play other games with us, even the usual assortment of kid-friendly board and card games. But Dad really got me into a different kind of a game that would definitely have a big impact on my life.

I had already seen a weird blue staple-bound book with a blue-toned cover with a picture of a dragon on it … and had a vague idea that it was something to do with some kind of game. I started playing D&D (Dungeons & Dragons, dontchaknow) with neighborhood kids at age seven—but it was with a group of older kids who teased me as much as included me. I loved playing but I didn’t have my own books or dice and came home sometimes with hurt feelings.

In ’83 Dad came home from the store with a red box. On the box was a ferocious dragon with a barbarian warrior charging it head-on. I didn’t know the names Gygax or Elmore back then, but I plunged into the books contents and became completely hooked. I didn’t play much with the neighborhood kids after that, but Dad and I cooked up one-on-one scenarios, and after a while I ran little “solo” dungeons for him as the Dungeon Master.

Years later I began running my own game, and Dad played. It didn’t even occur to me how extraordinary it was at the time. He was a grown man, in his 40s by then, sitting at the table slinging the dice with 12-year-old kids. But it was a mundane thing. He was my pal—the guy who took me to see Conan: The Barbarian when I was way too young to see an R-rated movie, but he wanted to see Robert E. Howard’s stories translated to film and he wanted to take his best friend to see it. His best friend being me.

At age 13 he brought me along to play with his adult friends. He had convinced them to let me play “just this once.” I’m sure they were convinced I wouldn’t know the rules or I’d be silly or immature. But Dad wanted me there, and after one session I was not only invited to join the D&D game but I got asked to join the Traveller-based “Space Dungeon” game as well.

Books & Movies

I already mentioned Conan. We had a tradition that every couple of weeks we’d go out and do something—just us guys. Movies were a big thing, and Schwarzenegger became a tradition after Mr. The Barbarian, though we’d see any crazy action flick with explosives and boobs or just about anything else that seemed cool.

Dad wanted to be a writer and didn’t write much, so he encouraged me when I started and was my first and biggest fan. He had great story ideas, though, and told them to me again and again. Soon, I think, I’m going to sit down and spin some of my Dad’s stories as best I can.

My Dad was super-interested in seeing if I’d like the same things that excited him. As I got older, not only did he get me into gaming, but he threw books at me. Classic sci-fi like Voyage of the Space Beagle and A Skylark of Space, pulp heroes like Tarzan and Doc Savage, serialized adventure with The Destroyer, crazy-concept fantasy and sci-fi from Farmer and Zelazny, gritty sword and sorcery from Howard and the high-fantasy of Tolkien—not to mention comics (everything from Archie to Batman) and humor (Mad magazine).

Since those early days, I majored in English lit and graduated to “the classics” and novels of depth and maturity. But nothing matched the page-turning glee of those first books, and while I’ve found lots of worth in so-called higher reading, I still enjoy reading the kind of books Dad set in front of me, and re-read some of those early books so I can recapture a bit of the magic of those early tales and adventures in my imagination.

I’ll be the first to admit that Dad’s the reason why I read in bed and in the bathroom.

Love & Women

When I was in kindergarten, we had a next door neighbor who was a seven-year old girl who towered over me. She was not a bad kid, but she could be a bit of a bully. Melanie was her name, and she was quick to call names or push a smaller kid to the ground. One day she was particularly abusive. She pushed my five-year-old self down several times, calling me one mean name after another. Though not an angry child, I finally had enough and I jumped to my feet and popped her right in the nose as hard I as I could swing my little fist.

Melanie burst into tears, screaming and crying and holding a nose that was gushing blood. I admit that I walked home proud of myself. I stood up against a much bigger foe and acted in self-defense. And I tagged her one good. She wouldn’t be picking on me again, and I was patting myself on the back. I went home and told my Dad the events with a self-satisfied smile on my face.

Dad was furious.

He told me never, NEVER put rough hands on a girl or woman. If they were mean or abusive, you are to walk away. In his book there was no acceptable situation where it was okay to hit a girl. He sent me to my room, telling me that he was ashamed that I had punched a girl in the face and left her bleeding. I stayed in my room that next day, was forced to apologize to my neighbors, and was grounded in the house the following day.

Lesson learned, Dad. It definitely wasn’t just that one incident that trained me to both a gentleman and a gentle man, as well as building in a protective streak when it came to the female persuasion. It was Mom who showed me how women can be just as tough, intelligent, and capable as any man—but that’s another blog—but it was Dad who showed me that any woman should still be treated like a lady.

When it came to birds and bees, Dad wasn’t much for the long talks. He gave me a very brief talk about protection—but for the specifics he pulled out a copy of The Joy of Sex that had been on the living room. The fully illustrated book showed me the mechanics, the philosophy of physical love between a man and a woman, and gave me plenty of inspiration for the years to come. It was less awkward and way more informative than he could have been anyway! He did tell me something that stuck with me over the years: “The worst sex I ever had was still better than no sex at all.”

Education & Career

My Dad went to college more years than most doctors and lawyers—yet he never got his degree. There were lots of reasons, including his physical limitations, but the real truth is that my Dad had a hard time sticking with any one thing. I learned as a teenager that my father had been in seminary for a time and had studied to be a pastor. He had since bounced around from one discipline and area of study to another.

That was definitely a running theme for my Dad. He was a dilettante. He’d get passionately interested in an idea or subject, dive into a like a man obsessed, and eventually get bored of it and simply shelve it away in the storage closet of his brain. He used to brag that he’d forgotten more than the rest of us would ever know.

He was fascinated with language, etymology, and specifically the evolution of the English language. Dad was also big on the connections of history—how individuals or seemingly innocuous events could have a giant impact on society, culture, and warfare. But he loved science, too. When I was about nine he showed me a book on Parasitology and let me know just what organisms were living on and in me on a good day, and what things I could pick up just by running barefoot through the grass. Dad definitely helped me develop the strong stomach that I have to this day—as he and I could have a conversation about hookworms at the dinner table while slurping up our spaghetti, even while my Mom and sisters turned green.
It took me a long time to realize that my Dad lacked real ambition and focus, however. Some people have a fear of failure, but I think my Dad had a kind of fear of success. He was a hard worker when it was time to work, but I don’t know that he ever would have been happy in any sort of traditional career. But he gave me lots of encouragement, was always excited for my accomplishments, and always made me feel like a winner. When I graduated from college, got promoted, got my first cover credit, won an industry award, he let me know how proud he was.

Dad made it clear that he wanted me to go farther and do more things than he was ever able. He never showed a hint of jealousy when I did something he had never did. Rather, he patted me on the back and quietly cheered me on.

Life

I could keep writing this for ages. I could talk about humor and storytelling. A love of hitting the road and traveling to new places. How I enjoy getting in the kitchen and cooking up a great dinner. Wearing blue jeans and t-shirts. Jumping on a motorcycle. There are just a thousand ways, and maybe more, of how I’m cut from the same cloth and sewn into very similar pattern as my Dad.

When I speak I hear how our voices are similar. When I scold my kids I sometimes find myself saying the same things. How sometimes I like to stay up late and play video games or have a few drinks and just tell stories with friends.

I miss him. And when I manage to remind myself of him, it’s impossible not to miss him all the time.

My brain and my heart haven’t fully accepted that he’s not here with us anymore. I half expect him to answer the phone when I call, and I know when I venture back down to Georgia I’m going to think he’s just off running a six-hour errand at Wally-World or picking something up at the hardware store.

He can’t be gone. From my earliest minutes of life he was the biggest, strongest, smartest, funniest person in my world. Indestructible. Immortal. He was so much of who I am. And even gone, he still is and always will be.

In 2006, my life hit a short-lived rough patch. I went back home for a week and slept on an air mattress in my old room, trying to figure out which direction to go with my life. When he thought I was asleep, he crept into the room and tousled my hair and said, “It’ll be all right, Dumplin’.”

I’ve done so many great things, largely thanks to him. I’ve written stories and made games and traveled across the country and even to other parts of the world. Some people think I’m really great, and none of them have a clue that I couldn’t have done any of these things if it wasn’t for my Dad. I couldn’t have done any of this without what he gave me, what he taught me, what he did with me.

I’d trade every dollar, every book, every award if he could walk into the room and do that just one more time.Jamie (2), Jimmie (37)

I love you, Dad.

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