Who's your daddy?

Another full moon rises over the east coast and I am told of my fathers passing by my mother who is in Arizona tonight. My father, she tells, me passed in 2005 and I was not aware if this information. The man pictured above was my step-father, Tom Deniston, an officer and a gentelman. He passed away last year and I went to the funeral in Santa Fe. But my 'real' dad was not present for the last 45 or so years of my life and now I find out that he is in fact gone. I've wondered about this for the last ten years or so. I hated my dad for being such a dick to my mom and my brothers my whole life. But I was older than my brothers and had actually spent time with dad and grandpa back in the day. Rolling out of Lincoln, Nebraska with a cooler full of beer and a trunk full of loaded shotguns for a weekend ride in the country. I was maybe 5 years old then and this seemed to be the high life. I couldn't wait to get in the 'ol Thunderbird on Saturday and head out. I would hand daddy and grandpa the can opener for their beers and we would roll down country roads for miles on end with the dust flying. In those days I spent every Friday or Saturday night with grandpa and he would let me stay up to watch Gunsmoke on TV. The weekend would start with a haircut at Walt's barber shop and then dinner at Kings diner. Sometimes, on saturday, dad would show up and it was like something special. See, dad was usually in jail on the weekends, thats how they did it back then. You could work all week but then you had to go to jail to pay off the debt you owed society on the weekends. We would ride for several miles and then we would come upon a covey of pheasent and the car would slow to the side of the road. Dad would tell me to hold his beer while he got the gun from the trunk. Blam....blam, blam. "Go get 'em boy", he'd say and I ran like the devil to get the kill. I was so proud to be part of this weekend ritual, dad and grandpa stone blind drunk and me fetchin' pheasant. In a blur everything changed and dad was gone for good. At 6 years old I was the man of the house and it wasn't good. My brothers would ask me for breakfast and I would pour out Puffed Wheat. They would say, "where's the milk?' I'd say, "don't wake up mom and just eat it." I hated those days and I cussed dad for putting me in that position to be the father. I had no skills at 6 years old but I did my best. When my mom meet Tom and he married her, I was relieved. I handed over the responsibility to him and he took it with pride. He adopted us three boys and gave us his name. The rest is history as they say, but I was so happy to be relieved of the burden. I met my 'real' dad years later in Denver and he didn't do any better then. I was with my friend Mishal and he scared the hell out of her by screaming at the top of his lungs at his then wife for no reason after a day trip to Boulder. Thanks dad. Now, today I know he is gone, and I could say that I don't care. But, that would be a lie, I do care, and I don't know why. Good bye Jim, you bastard. Thanks for nothing.