None Call Me Dad

By Ky Owen

None Call Me Dad is the true, mesmerizing story of a 21st Century dad. On two weeks notice, Ky Owen becomes an adoptive father to a six-year-old son. Five years later, on two days notice, he becomes a father to a teenage daughter. Along the way he assumes the role of father figure to four other kids. “None call me dad,” Owen writes,

• Language: English
• Publisher: None Call Me Dad, LLC
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996399432

Book preview

Prologue

The ball ricocheted off the edge of the racquet and spun off at an angle before dropping just short of the net. I slammed the racquet face against my left hand, looking down to avoid my partner’s glare.

Come on, Ky, the coach shouted as I took my position on the service line. Show some Mateen!

The reference to Michigan State’s point guard invigorated me. When the coach put another ball in play, I ignored the tension in my left hamstring. Charging forward at an angle, I squarely volleyed a shot into the front corner, well outside the opponent’s reach.

Now that’s Spartan tennis! the coach exclaimed.

Not bad for a guy who turned 41 yesterday, I said with a grin.

Monday night tennis was part of my routine, followed by a late-night dinner. Tammy, my wife of 11 years, accepted being a tennis widow.

I’d become so committed to my tennis game that two years earlier we built a tennis court at our house, situated in the woods just minutes from our office in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. We designed the house to fit our lifestyle, complete with a library, formal dining room and wide-open basement with black and white tiles across the floor.

You must not have kids, the painter said when I showed him the paint chips for the basement walls. Red makes children hyper.

No, just a dog, I said. Needless to say our beagle, Samantha, was more interested in the wildlife than the basement walls.

Tammy and I had long ago grown accustomed to our dual income, no kids, aka DINK, status. We focused on our law practice in a mid-sized firm. Being in the capital city, the practice attracted a fair amount of business—transactional work for Tammy and significant litigation for me. I worked out almost every day, played tennis four days a week, and constantly trained for distance runs with Tammy. And as a faithful Michigan State University alum, I religiously followed Spartan sports.

I’d given up on any notion of becoming a father, being satisfied with my role as Uncle Ky—and that role by virtue of marriage. Aaron’s biological father was Tammy’s brother. Six years old, Aaron lived with his grandparents, Tammy’s mother and stepfather.

Aaron often spent weekends with us. We chauffeured him to soccer and t-ball, occasionally helping practice his sight words or complete other school work. I took Aaron to see his first NFL game at Soldier Field and baseball games at Camden Yards and Three Rivers Stadium. And, of course, there were the usual trips to McDonalds.

Y2K arrived without incident, with Tammy and I content in our role as fun-loving Uncle Ky and Aunt Tammy, focusing on our law practice and enjoying the freedom of our DINK status. I christened the New Year with a Miller Lite and Tombstone pizza, watching the Spartans kick a field goal as time expired to win the Citrus Bowl, then turning my attention to the Spartan basketball team that stood in the top 10.

Two Weeks Notice

It was the first Monday of March 2000. I was downstairs in the exercise room going through my hour-long workout routine. Tammy was at the hospital with her mother, who had suffered a stroke on Sunday afternoon.

Tammy came in a few minutes before six o’clock. The strain was evident in her face. She let out a long sigh, taking comfort in knowing she didn’t have to worry about putting up a front.

I continued jumping rope and asked, What’s the prognosis?

She’ll have to go to a rehab facility, Tammy said, powering up the treadmill to four miles an hour for a brisk walk. Hopefully she can go home eventually, but Jack is going to have to take care of her around the clock.

I stopped short of 300 reps to ask the obvious.

What about Aaron?

I’m not sure Jack can handle both my mom and Aaron, Tammy said.

Before she could say any more, I interrupted her. I know what’s coming. And I’m willing to do it. I added one condition. We adopt him. I’m not in this just to be a guardian.

That goes without saying, Tammy said, nodding in agreement. We’ve got to do what’s in his best interest. Aaron needs to have a stable environment, with people he knows to be his parents and raise him.

I resumed jumping rope, overwhelmed by excitement and anxiety at the prospect of transitioning from uncle to father, with absolutely no concept of what was to come.

***

Over the next two weeks, Tammy’s family considered our adoption plan. All acknowledged that Tammy’s stepfather couldn’t realistically care for both a stroke victim and a six-year-old boy. Aaron’s biological father was not in a position to take on custodial responsibilities, and Aaron’s biological mother had her hands full with Aaron’s half-siblings, Robert and Sierra, ages 13 and 11.

In the meantime, I brought Aaron over each Friday night and kept him occupied during the weekend so his grandfather could spend time at the hospital. That’s how movie night came to be. I needed a plan to feed and entertain Aaron, while at the same time feeding Samantha and completing mundane household tasks like sorting the mail.

How about we rent a movie and eat pizza? I suggested. Little did I know that I was creating a family tradition that continued when Tammy was able to stay home on weekends. All three of us ate pizza and watched movies on Friday night for years to come.

***

Aaron knew that his grandmother was in the hospital, but he didn’t know the severity of her condition. On the second weekend following the stroke, Tammy took a break from the hospital so we could talk to Aaron. We sat down on the edge of the twin beds in the front bedroom.

Hey buddy, Tammy said with a mix of cheer and concern. We need to talk.

About what?

It’s about your Nan, Tammy said. She’s hurt and her brain is not working right. We hope she’ll be OK, but she’s going to need a lot of help. Grandpa needs to take care of her, and it’s best for you to come and live with us.

I braced for an emotional outburst. Instead, Aaron just focused his eyes on Tammy, listening intently. He asked a few more questions about his Nan, but otherwise seemed remarkably calm as we outlined the logistics.

You’ll stay with Grandpa for the next two weeks so you can finish the grading period at Nitro Elementary, she explained. Then you’ll move here and go to a new school. Aaron just nodded and asked if he and I were still going out to a movie.

On Sunday I packed up Aaron’s clothes, planning to take him back to his grandparents’ house that afternoon and then return home to enjoy one last Tombstone pizza and Miller Lite before beginning parenthood.

What are you doing with that? Aaron asked when he saw me with his bag. I live here now.

Just taking everything to your room, I improvised.

***

Coming home from the office on Monday, I realized that my routine would change. Rather than working out and practicing my serve and volley, I’d be eating supper at the kitchen table and running bath water. Nevertheless, I hopped out of the car with a spring in my step. I was Dad—just like the TV dads from the 1960s sitcoms I watched as a kid. I burst through the garage door like Dick Van Dyke, looking forward to my family cheerily greeting me.

I was met by Aaron standing in the middle of the basement, just below the stairwell. Now that I’m living here, I’m calling you Ky and Tammy, he announced in a voice loud enough for both of us to hear.

Thinking like a lawyer, I immediately considered this a challenge to our parental authority. Shouldn’t he be calling us ‘Mom and Dad’? I asked myself.

Title or no title, when we sat down at the kitchen table for supper that first night, I reached over and turned the television off.

Hey, Aaron said. What are you doing?

We’re having supper together so we can talk, Tammy said. Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but Tammy cut off debate.

Because we said so. We’re your parents.

Later that evening she privately confided in me. I’m beginning to sound like my mother. I swore I’d never say that to a child of mine.

***

Two days later I opened the door from the garage to find Aaron sitting in a chair midway down the hallway. Aaron furrowed his brows and stared straight ahead, working his shoulders back and forth between a sulk and a defiant arch.

Tammy appeared in the laundry room door with a stoic face. He’s in time-out, she said. Her tone was measured—not too stern, not too frantic. I told him if he could tell me what he did wrong and what he would do differently next time, I’d release him early. According to the book, a time-out should last one minute per year of age, and Tammy had offered to release him three minutes early.

Aaron’s response to Tammy’s offer of clemency was unequivocal. Gritting his teeth like my dad on the golf course, he looked up and said, I’ll take the minutes.

Well, I said, working hard to adopt Tammy’s moderated, parental tone, then he can have the minutes. I was ready to call our counselor for advice. Tammy had to focus on removing the lint from the dryer so Aaron wouldn’t see her laughing.

***

My baptism came the following night. Michigan State had reached the Sweet 16 in the NCAA basketball tournament. I turned on the game and left Tammy in charge of getting Aaron ready for bed.

Aaron threw a tantrum.

I want Ky to help me!

Ky’s watching his game, Tammy said.

I want Ky! Aaron repeated.

The first half was coming to an end and the Spartans were down by 10. Between the game and the tantrum, I was beginning to feel physically sick to my stomach. The need to change my priorities was obvious, and with a heavy sigh I turned off the television and went to help Aaron get ready for bed.

An hour later I turned the television back on to discover that while I had been reading to Aaron, Mateen Cleaves had rallied the Spartans to victory!

Missing the championship game was not an option. I decided to go watch the game with Tammy’s grandfather. He needs some company, I told Tammy and Aaron on my way out the door. Don’t worry buddy, maybe you can stay up and watch with me when you’re older.

I thoroughly enjoyed seeing my team win the national championship in peace, the only shouting coming from me. When I arrived back home shortly before midnight, I was still wired and charged inside ready to relive the game. Tammy greeted me with a finger to her mouth, her expression clearly signaling, Be quiet!

So much for cracking open that bottle of Dom Perignon.

***

Sam quickly grew accustomed to having Aaron around. But the more she let him pet her the more he missed Dolly, his six-month-old beagle/basset puppy. We told Aaron that Dolly needed to keep Jack company.

That worked for almost a week.

On Sunday we agreed that Dolly could come up to visit that afternoon. Aaron sat in the front seat of my Celica—probably in violation of state law, but the Celica didn’t really have a back seat—and held Dolly up to let her lick his face. Dolly was the runt of the litter. At six months she weighed no more than 15 pounds. She had long ears and short legs. And she had those brown eyes, the ones that look right into your heart. My sister used to say that God gave dogs those eyes so they wouldn’t go hungry. When I looked over and saw the smile on Aaron’s face and Dolly’s tail wagging across the windshield, I told myself, That dog isn’t going back.

Sam adapted to Dolly’s arrival with ease. After just a few vicious snarls, Dolly learned her boundaries.

If only I could have redrawn Aaron’s boundaries with such ease.

***

You know what I order—a cheeseburger, fries and nuggets, Aaron used to say with a sigh. I thought this was a bit much for a six-year-old, but when I was an uncle I didn’t fight it.

I’m not going to let him run into traffic, I told Tammy. But if his grandparents allow him to eat half the value menu, who am I to say no?

Having become Aaron’s dad, however, I decided that he was going to cut back. I made the announcement as we pulled into the drive-thru lane.

You can have a cheeseburger and either fries or nuggets, I told him. Which do you want?

I want a burger, fries and nuggets! he shouted.

You can have either fries or nuggets, not both, I replied in a calm, but firm, tone.

I want my regular meal! he yelled.

I’m almost to the speaker, I answered. You need to decide.

Take me back to Grandpa’s.

We’ll talk about that later. For now, fries or nuggets?

I hate you!

I’ll stipulate to that, I said, my calm tone belying my frayed nerves. Fries or nuggets?

***

Not surprisingly, by this time Aaron had seen enough to conclude that Ky and Tammy weren’t as much fun as Uncle Ky and Aunt Tammy. When I came home after work on Friday night, I saw Aaron walking down the driveway.

I’m going back to Grandpa’s, he told me in a calm, even tone.

OK, I intoned, equally calm, as Tammy glared at me.

I parked and took Tammy aside. I don’t know what to do, I said. My mom would let me go, knowing I’d come back.

The plan worked, perhaps because Aaron knew I’d brought pizza.

The second time Aaron tried this stunt, Tammy casually walked a short distance behind him, telling Aaron she was just taking a walk. Once again, he quickly changed his mind and turned around. We were getting the hang of this parenting gig.

Or so we thought.

On his sixth attempt in as many days, Aaron crossed the interstate bridge just down the road from our house. Tammy stopped, and within a few feet Aaron turned back as well. But the next time he crossed the bridge, continued to the top of the hill, and started down Crestwood Road.

Recognizing that we had not figured out this parenting gig, we sought professional advice. The counselor instructed us to stop Aaron at the bottom of the driveway and physically turn him around. Do it every time he walks out until he stops. Tammy rolled her eyes, but I suggested we give it a try.

I know it sounds ridiculous, and I agree with you that pushing a 100-pound kid back up the hill presents an uphill battle, I said, with no pun intended. But I don’t know what else to do.

The following day I came home to find Aaron starting down the driveway. Per our instructions, I stopped immediately and got out of the car. I caught up with him at the bottom of the driveway. That’s far enough, I said as I took his hand. We’re going back inside. You live here now.

He stayed 15 years.

Golf, It's Tradition

Aaron ambled around the pro shop with his teammates. The kids fidgeted with tees in their fingers, tossed balls between hands, pulled the velcro on and off their golf gloves. All five were outfitted in khaki pants and white collared shirts. Aaron and his friend Justin had their shirts tucked in. I was tempted to ask Aaron about the upcoming match. After all, golf is a father-son tradition in the Owen family. But I held back and left Aaron alone to fidget with the rest of the Elkview Middle School golf team, aka the Elk Herd. Drifting back to a corner, I recalled what my dad used to say when I honed my golf game: Your grandfather would be proud.

***

I only had two weeks to prepare to be a father. No time for self-help books; no time to ask my dad for advice. All I knew was that I needed to get Aaron a set of golf clubs.

Easter Sunday came within five weeks and I gave Aaron his first set of golf clubs—a modern driver with a graphite head, four irons and a putter—with a red and black nylon bag. Quite a contrast to my first set of clubs, which came loaded haphazardly in a tattered bag patterned after the interior of a London Fog raincoat.

My dad had learned the game from his father—though from the stories he told me, it sounded like my dad spent more time as a caddy than a playing partner. When I finally showed an interest in the game at age 14, Dad decided to bequeath his clubs to me, taking the opportunity to buy a new set for himself.

Your grandfather gave me these clubs, Dad told me. My grandfather was a pretty good golfer. He played both for recreation and business. Being a public relations guy for the Hormel Company presented opportunities to mix business and golf. On one such outing, he met a club designer. The guy gave my grandfather a prototype of a new club, nattily named Power Plus.

This set is one of only 300, my dad told me as I examined the unique structure of the club face.

The following season he told me the rest of the story. There were only 300 made because no one could play with them, he admitted. Why do you think your grandfather gave them to me?

I couldn’t master the club any better than my grandfather’s cronies back in the ’50s, and after a year I received a set of modern irons. The Power Plus set remained in the back of the garage storage closet along with a few antique wooden clubs.

In the years that followed, I spent countless summer afternoons on the golf course with my dad. I looked forward to giving my son the same opportunity.

The opportunity came the day after Easter. After work, I found Aaron standing at the top of the stairs with the golf bag slung over his shoulder.

Will you come out and practice with me? he asked.

I tossed my suit coat on the banister and headed out the door. Let’s start with the nine iron, I suggested.

Aaron pulled out the driver and teed up a ball. Watch this!

Wearing a tie and dress shoes, I shagged balls across the front yard and into the woods for nearly an hour. I tried to offer some semblance of instruction and managed to hit a few practice shots of my own.

The following year Aaron was ready to venture on the golf course. For Father’s Day my dad took Aaron and me to play a round at the Parkersburg Country Club. I quickly realized that my role involved more than bridging the generation gap. Aaron was starting to get the hang of the game, but he still hit some errant shots. My dad was an admitted duffer whose shots usually went to the left of the intended target. Aaron just swung at will without looking for the trajectory of the ball and my dad always looked straight ahead like his dad had taught him. As a result, neither one had any idea where their shot might actually land. I found myself serving as caddy to both father and son, stopping in between to advance my own ball.

Like any golfers, on occasion we found our groove. Late one Saturday afternoon, we stood on the tee box at the fifth hole, a par 3 measuring just under 100 yards. The short fairway lay in between railroad tracks on the left and River Road on the right.

Aaron teed off first, using his driver. Adopting my nomenclature, he called it the Big Cuhuda. He struck the ball right on the sweet spot and it sailed in a straight line toward the green.

Great shot! my dad shouted as the ball rolled up on the green.

Not bad, buddy, I added.

Aaron smiled triumphantly as he carefully put the head cover back on the Cuhuda.

Dad went next. He stood over his ball and took at least a dozen short practice swings. I looked over at Aaron and shook my head before Aaron could make some smart remark like, Is there a shot in our future? Finally, Dad took a full swing and the ball took off in a line drive just a few feet over the ground, coming to rest on the front edge of the green.

Yes! Aaron shouted, pumping his fist.

Nice shot, I said.

I relaxed with the knowledge that no caddy duties would be required. I took a soft swing with my wedge and pitched a perfect lob to the center of the green. We took our putters out of the cart and walked to the green.

Your putt is downhill, so take it easy, I told Aaron. He rolled the putt close to the hole and then walked over to mark his ball with a degree of fanfare. My dad putted close enough to the hole that he was able to tap in his putt for par. I left my putt just outside of Aaron’s ball and then putted in for par as well.

Aaron took his time placing the ball down, studying the putt. Then he carefully tapped the ball with the putter head.

The sound of the golf ball dropping in for par was melodic.

We strutted off the green, each casually swinging a putter in our right hand. We looked like real golfers.

My grandfather would have been proud.

I’m not sure if the following hole would have caused him to laugh or cringe.

***

The sixth hole is a long par 5 running along the railroad track. I put my tee shot over the rails, then took a mulligan. Over the next 540 yards, I scuttled back and forth to help Aaron and my dad. As we neared the green, I sent Dad ahead, rushed over to hit my shot and hopped in the cart on the passenger side.

You’re up that way too, I told Aaron. Drive up the right side and pull up behind my dad. Aaron hit the gas too hard and we took off with a jolt. Hey buddy, I said, you might want to slow down. Three seconds later Aaron locked up the brakes and the cart skidded to a stop just inches behind Dad’s cart.

My father turned to his grandson and gritted his teeth so hard that the lower plate of his dentures moved forward. Damnit! he shouted. Be careful!

Aaron’s face turned pale as he looked over to me. Aaron, I think Dave missed the sand trap after all—he’s in great position to win the hole, I said with a forced smile. My ploy worked and the tension passed.

***

We continued the tradition the following summer. One Saturday we played nine holes and then returned home for beverages on the patio and steaks on the grill, just as Dad and I had done when I was growing up.

After dinner, Aaron started asking my dad about the Navy. Dad brought down his USS Kearsarge yearbook and showed Aaron pictures while reminiscing about his Navy days. I was a steward, Dad explained. To this day, Aaron brags that his grandfather served as a bartender in the Navy.

I relished seeing my dad feel the joy of being a grandfather. Aaron began telling his friends that Dave had not been his grandfather at first, but he had become his grandfather.

A few weeks later, Aaron visited Dave, now his grandfather, in the ICU unit at Charleston Area Medical Center. I had to leave the room when I saw Dad raise his eyebrows to acknowledge his grandson’s visit. Dad died an hour later.

Aaron loves to tell people that he played golf with his grandfather, who had played with his father and then with me. Borrowing a line from Fiddler on the Roof, Aaron exclaims, It’s tradition!

***

In March of Aaron’s sixth grade year he came