These are the first five words to the Judy Collins song, “My Father”. Here’s the song, for you, a few days before Father’s Day:

Parenting is an art, not a science. In that context, I think my father’s approach was finger-painting “Guernica”. That is, his effort resulted in an unsophisticated tableau of violence.

Over time, I’ve learned that everyone screws up their parenting in some way and there are plenty of things that I did where I’d gladly accept a “do-over”. Having said that, I don’t want to let my father off the hook. He was emotionally absent, except when he wasn’t, and those were the times I feared most.

Table-banging. Screaming. Blazing anger, seemingly from nowhere. What were his demons? I can only imagine. Was it rooted in the upbringing by strict immigrant parents, an emotionally absent father? Was it the horror of WWII combat? Was it a chemical imbalance?

Maybe. Probably “all of the above” but the net result was that my sister and I would very literally run for cover, and dive under the bed for safety, when he went on the warpath. And we were never truly sure what would set him off. A loud noise? A long-forgotten memory? A bad day at the office?

I remember as a small boy having to zero-out my emotions and “run silent, run deep” when he came home from a night out. I’d dread hearing the fumbling of his key in the front door lock. Who knew what shape he’d be in at three in the morning? We feared the worst and we were rarely disappointed.

The father in Judy Collin’s song was a miner, who shared big dreams with his family, dreams that took root a generation down the road. My father worked the mines of the concrete canyons, as an accountant in Manhattan. In my recollection, he did not dream. My father shared his nightmares, however. He downloaded tales of war to me when I was a child, yet did not share these with his family, with his own wife. I was the lucky tape recorder into which he unspooled his demons. But there were no expressed dreams, not of “living in France”, that’s for sure.

Nor did he give advice. He said that, in so many words. He rarely spoke, in fact. He stared out the window of our dingy apartment holding a can of Schafer and look at the rain pelt down on our Bronx street. That’s what I remember most: the absent stare.

There was no “there” there. Was it depression? PTSD? Funny, but decades later, I spoke to my cousin about his dad. My uncle’s behavior mirrored my dad’s. There was some corrupt file in that household, to be sure, since my uncle did not go to war.

I made parenting mistakes with my own son. This I admit. I tried hard to undo the pain of my own childhood, and I over-compensated in some ways. And my anger did flare, an anger I’ve come to tame over the decades. Yes, I know: “hurt people hurt people”.

I give my dad a D- in parenting. I give myself a B/B-. (My son would no doubt disagree.) My son is an amazing guy. Super smart, funny, handsome, mentally and physically strong. From time to time, over the years, I was asked how I learned to be a dad. My stock answer was: “Easy. I thought about what my father would do, and just did the complete opposite.” Ha ha. Very facile.

But. I was emotionally available to guide and hopefully inspire. My kid can give and receive love and is now engaged to a wonderful young woman. They are each other’s best friend and soulmate. It’s beautiful to watch.

So at the end of the day, maybe that was my father’s gift to me. I experienced a childhood with a woefully deficient dad and, from these bitter ashes, learned how to be a parent. Not a “best friend” — a parent. A dad who set moral and ethical boundaries, gave unconditional love, supported and suggested big dreams, and always had his kid’s back.

Parenting is an ongoing effort and the relationship is always a work in progress. I adore every minute of it. Happy Father’s Day, all you dads out there!