My Father, The Sex Machine

At the funeral of my father — a surgeon in Lancaster, Pennsylvania — his former secretary came up to me in tears, gave me a warm hug, and said, “Your father was the most wonderful person I knew.”  This kind of shocked me, because my memories of Dad were not, for the most part, wonderful.  Yet here was this obese middle-aged woman blithering about how many poor people my father had helped — without any hope of being paid; how he had personally told her not to send medical bills to patients he knew to be penniless.

Yet my impression of Dad, as I grew up, was that my father liked birds better than people — perhaps because his earliest experiences of the human race were rather negative.  He was an only child; his mother was a spoiled, peevish society girl from Mainline Philadelphia.  From what my mother told me about her mother-in-law… poor Dad.

Yet in many ways Dad had it good.  He was smart, athletic — and, as you can see from this photo of him at Haverford College — very good-looking.

After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania medical school, where my mother was his classmate, he went to Liberia as a missionary doctor for a few years.  Below we see Dad in Liberia, relaxing on a hammock in the jungle.  He would need all the rest he could get, because when he came back to the States, life got hectic.

During Dad’s career as a surgeon,  I remember the phone ringing in the wee hours, between midnight and 4:00 AM, and minutes later, footsteps on the stairs, the back door slamming, the old VW starting and accelerating out the driveway.  Usually it was an emergency appendectomy, which requires slicing into the abdomen of a total stranger and delicately removing up to half a pound of stinky mess.  In my imagination, the human race must have looked to my father like armies of the walking dead — a bunch of rotting organs, walking on two legs, keeping him from sleep.

The woman he married — my mother, as luck would have it — was six inches taller than he, which I’m pretty sure was stressful for him.  Mom was a frustrated, emotionally unstable medical school graduate who bore him six frustrated, emotionally unstable children — each of which represented, to Dad, an endless river of frustration and emotional instability.

I later learned that I, the third of the lot, was the last “planned pregnancy” in the family.  My younger three siblings were all kind of “oops,” thanks to my father’s insatiable libido.  Nonetheless, older children always thought the younger ones got the best of everything, while the younger ones complained of having to wear hand-me-down clothes.  The sibling rivaly got nasty.

By now, I think you get the picture.  For my father, people were — in general — a drag.

Birds, on the other hand, didn’t complain — except for crows, whose loud caws awakened us many mornings on the farm where I grew up.  Birds, unlike Mom, didn’t bitch and moan; they made songs delightful to the soul.  Birds, unlike my siblings and me, didn’t walk on my father’s newly-seeded lawn or his newly-planted vegetable garden, then track mud on the carpet.

The very fact that I took this photo of a house finch means I’ve inherited at least some of my father’s obsession with birds.

No, birds twittered in the trees, and flew over our heads in flocks and swoops and barrel rolls.  Birds were fun.  Especially barn swallows, which were precision-flying prodigies.  Crows were a pain in the ass, with their cacophonies and sneak attacks on the corn, so in their case my father made an exception to his Quaker pacifism and shot them with his .22 rifle.  He would then leave their bodies to rot next to the corn field, a warning to their fellows.


As referenced in an earlier post here—“Lifelong Learning”—my father never said “I love you” to me until the last time I saw him.  For my father, I think, love equaled sex, and was therefore inappropriate for children. According to my mother, who after my father’s death felt a need to share personal details with all who would listen, Dad was a sex machine.  Mom told my sister, “Your father’s hands were everwhere.”  Mom and Dad didn’t stop having weekly or biweekly sex until he had a disabling stroke.

Go, Dad.

So, to recap, here is Dad’s list so far:

People – a drag.

Birds – good, except for crows.

Sex – great!

Dad also loved gardening.  Coming home from a ten-or-twelve-or-fourteen-hour day at the hospital, he made a beeline straight to his vegetable garden, which was a meditation on chaos.  Rows of vegetable plants could best be found among the waist-high weeds by looking for little piles of stones that Dad put at the end of each row, the plan being that Dad would later cart the stones off to another location.  (That rarely happened.)

Dad also marked rows of vegetables with random sticks of scrap material: broken dowel rods; bent metal tubing from umbrellas; short PVC pipes; plastic forks; straws from McDonald’s milkshakes; remnants of smashed kite frames; and scraps of aluminum conduit.

On our gentleman’s farm, nothing went to waste. Actually we can add to the list of things Dad loved:  random stuff.  My father could throw, would throw, did throw nothing away.  He was a textbook example of a pack rat.  Dad was remarkable for his obdurate inability to part with any object in his possession, no matter how trivial or apparently worthless.  He filled every available space in every building of our farm with random stuff, initially organized in stacks, piles, cartons, or bins, but increasingly demonstrative of the second law of thermodynamics:  everything in the physical universe tends towards entropy.

The first designated storage area for family flotsam and  jetsam was our basement, which Dad quickly filled with plastic bottles and paper cups that could be used for gardening purposes; boxes of assorted plumbing parts; boxes of used medical supplies (rubber gloves, disposable scalpels, syringes, and medicine bottles); varieties of string and twine; varieties of plastic, paper, and burlap bags; and stacks of magazines, organized by date, and sometimes even tied together with strings: National Geographic, Scientific American, Time, Ramparts, the Nation, Atlantic Monthly, and the Journal of the American Medical Association.

Once our basement was full, the overflow rose to our attic; from there to the hog pen attached to the back of our garage; and thence to the pigeon roost above the hog pen.  Spillover piles, stacks, and boxes of debris flowed into a chicken house with an improvised greenhouse attached, made of scrap lumber and plastic sheeting.  From there, everything with which my father could not part took refuge in our 4,000-square-foot barn, crowding out cows, sheep, and the occasional horse.

By the time Dad passed away, physical evidence of his unresolved psychological issues had choked every flat surface of more than 20,000 square feet of house, barn, and outbuildings.

After the funeral, my older brother Jim began the sad task of carting Dad’s
memorabilia by the truckload to a pit in a cornfield for cremation.  Columns of smoke rose above our farm for weeks.

At a memorial service for Dad, brother Jim produced an epitimous example of Dad’s obsession with stuff:  a small bottle, with a small note inside, in our father’s neat handwriting:  “Hole in bottom.”  Sure enough, the bottle had a tiny hole in its bottom.

Don’t we all.


But I would be remiss were I to not mention a whole other side of Dad.

In my early forties and living in Mission Hills, California, I came down with a mysterious rash that started on my foot and spread quickly up my leg.  I also had a fever and felt completely exhausted.  I went to a local doctor assigned to me by Blue Cross HMO.  The doctor ran tests and X-rays, diagnosed me with pneumonia, and prescribed a wide-spectrum antibiotic.  I called Dad to update him.  He asked about my symptoms.  I told him. He expressed doubt as to the diagnosis. He told me to check and write down my temperature every four to eight hours for the next twenty-four hours, which I did. When I reported back to him that my fever had gone from 100 to 101.5 in two shallow waves, he said, “God damn it, you don’t have pneumonia.  You have mononucleosis!  Go back and tell that doctor to run blood tests for mono.”  I did, and sure enough, I had the Epstein-Barr virus with infectious mononucleosis.

My father had correctly diagnosed me over the phone, sight unseen, from three thousand miles away.  He was good.  Very good.  At being a doctor, anyway.

At Dad’s funeral, fellow physicians stood up at the eulogy (held in the chapel of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Lancaster, Pennsylvania) and sang his praises.  My father was a consummate professional, the most skilled surgeon they had ever known, even though he was “a pack-ratter,” one friend called him.

When I went shopping in a local supermarket and I showed my I.D., the cashier’s eyes got big: “Oh!  Are you Dr. Mears’s son?”  She explained that my father had saved her daughter’s life.  More visits to local businesses throughout my life have yielded similar stories; Dad had saved their mother’s life, or their son’s or daughter’s life, or their friend’s or husband’s life.  Often at one, two, or three o’clock in the morning.  And often without being able to pay.  And as I was told by Connie, his medical secretary, that when it came time to collect from the poor, Dad told his office staff, “They don’t have insurance.  They can’t afford the bill. Let it go.”

Because Dad did not use draconian methods to collect medical fees, our family was always a little short of cash, and my father drove a used Volkswagon beetle and wore the same suit five or six days a week.  In spite of that, he put five of his six children through university.  In my case, I think it was especially difficult for him, because he thought my choice of university—Maharishi International University, a kind of experimental New Age college where the curriculum was all centered around the teachings of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi—was a big mistake.  But he paid my tuition and never once complained.  (I only found out that he didn’t agree with my choice of schools after he passed away, when my little brother Bill told me.)

My father, an agnostic Quaker, was one of the only liberal doctors in the staunchly conservative Republican city of Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  He was among the first people I knew to oppose the Vietnam war, to support civil rights and environmental causes, to practice recycling, and to advocate for socialized medicine.  Our family donated the use of our station wagon to civil rights workers traveling to Selma, Alabama.  When I got stranded after an anti-Vietnam-War march in Washington, D.C., Dad drove through the night to give me a ride home, because he believed in the march and in peace, even though he had to see patients at 7:00 AM the next morning.

Dad was, by some measures, a terrible father.  He was cold, remote, impatient, scornful, and often violent.  I remember him whipping me with the thin branches of apple trees, and I remember Dad chasing my older brother Jim around the farm and hurling wedges of scrap lumber at him after Jim accidentally let the cows into the sweet corn patch.

But my father saved dozens, probably hundreds of lives — maybe more — and he was one of the most sincere believers in education, environmental preservation, organic gardening, and open-mindedness–and in every case he practiced his beliefs with firm resolve.  In spite of his violent temper and inherited peevishness, I saw him always trying to be gentle, kind, generous, understanding, and well-informed, never rushing to judgment, never forming opinions that were not merited by solid data.

This Father’s Day, I thank Dr. Frank Kennedy Mears, Jr. for giving me life; for supporting my education at a really weird university; for serving as a positive role model in many ways; and for teaching me core values I now hold close to my heart, as I hold him in my memory and in my gratitude–in part because he loved my mother, and proved it in one of the most sincere ways possible:  with geriatric sex.

Dad talking to me behind the farmhouse, circa 1984. This was after I got married. I think he liked me better after I got married. For one thing, he really liked my wife.

P.S. July 1, 2011

It was around ten days ago that I first published this post.  Just now I got out of the Jacuzzi at around 1 AM and I–rooftops away–I heard a lone mockingbird singing to the night. Immediately I thought of my father, who of course loved birds, but at some point, gentle reader, I want to share with you a really weird story about birds and my father.  Until then, thanks for reading!

P.P.S. June 15, 2013

I just updated this piece with a few editing touches.  Tomorrow is Father’s Day.  Time to post this again on FaceBook.

P.P.P.S. August 21, 2014

Dad’s birthday.  More editing touches.  I love this piece, as I love Dad.

P.P.P.P.S June 21, 2015

Still another quick edit.  Thank you, Dad.


About John Mears

I teach English, take photographs, play guitar, write, do yoga, meditate, hike, play computer games, and love (and try to serve) humanity. If anything here touches you, let me know! Leave a comment! Subscribe! Enjoy! If you like the photos, you might like the greeting cards we will be selling soon!
This entry was posted in Autobiographical, Essays, Humor, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

15 Responses to My Father, The Sex Machine

  1. vincent122 says:

    very tochin John, …almost the same as my dad,

    • John Mears says:

      It was a generation of men locked off from their feelings, and women locked off in the kitchen for the most part.

    • John Mears says:

      My mom was not a happy camper for around 30 years. Graduated medical school with Dad, but never really started her career as a psychiatrist until she finished her residency in her fifties.

  2. John Mears says:

    Ooops, I already blabbed about that in “Lifelong Learning.” LOL

  3. edith hoffmann says:

    Very interesting family and life. Worthy of a book.
    Glad you made your peace.

  4. Gail Dowle says:

    My mom was one of those people whose life your father saved. My mother spoke very highly of him which is something coming from a woman who won’t give a doctor the time of day anymore.
    I am sure he was very proud of you but like my father, just couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Seems as though that generation was a bit short on words of love but not too short on a good smack when we were bad.
    Well written John….:-)

  5. Lilly Edens says:

    John – so much of this sounds so familiar – especially the hoarding/strained socialization skills. In retrospect I have often wondered if some of those traits (so familiar in our family) might not have been an aspect of autism (though highly functioning) that gave us family members who had one side at home and another that others saw. And yet we could always see aspects of that other side that so impressed others – though we were often overwhelmed by the ‘warts’ that we as close family were more familiar with on a day to day basis. If it makes you feel any different – I and my siblings always loved your parents (and you all of course) because they were quirky, witty, intelligent and relatively open-minded (very attractive to us Mears-Kline kids.) They had ideals and stuck to them, and with your mom – she was a professional when women still were not really doing that sort of thing. In fact – you and your family have always been an inspiration to us – Life wasn’t perfect, but it never stopped any of you all to keep from trying (and trying again if need be) and every last one of you have the most beautiful hearts and energy – something I saw every time I saw ANY of you through the decades. I have been proud to not only be related to you, but to have been privileged to actually get to know most of you – and truly some of the happiest and most interesting gatherings I have been at in my lifetime have been our family reunions (and weddings and other come-together events.) Your father may not have always made life easy for you (okay – sometimes very tough) but he (and your mom) did help guide all of you into amazing people who have blessed and expanded the lives of many other people. Sorry for rambling on so – I just wanted you to know how I feel and some of my perceptions from over the years.

    • John Mears says:

      Lilly, thank you, I’m overwhelmed, but I will tell you that I felt similarly about Tommy & Ann. Truly, the inside story is often far different from what we see on the outside. I’m just very grateful for all the positives I find in this world, having spent the first 17 years or so in a swamp of negativity. This is the gift of darkness: it accentuates the light, and helps us appreciate it more.

  6. Thanks a lot john for sharing it. Just had chance to read and enjoy it. Your father certainly taught you core values very well.
    You too serve many in need not necessarily by removing their appendices, but by teaching your students the most basic skill of all, language, and by supporting your students to find themselves. Proudly, I am one of them!

    • John Mears says:

      Dear Nezzy, Thank you for your kind letter, in practically perfect English. You’re right, I don’t remove appendices, but I do try to remove bad grammar, heheh…. But seriously, I’m proud to count you among my former students. It’s one of the greatest joys in my life to have taught immigrants who turned out like you.

  7. Mike Herr says:

    Hey John – thanks for sharing these memories. I remember meeting your dad a few times and he was kind of removed and cold. But I DO remember the time we got drunk down at the creek at the end of the orchard in high school on wine you “found”. I passed out in the tent and woke up to hear you and your dad talking…so I get up, stumble out and start demanding “where’s me bottle, where’s me bottle?” Your dad was very restrained and only told you to make sure that I didn’t fall into the creek and hurt myself or drown. I don’t know if there was any other fall-out afterwards about us doing this, but at least he was civil to me later.

  8. John: This is a really wonderful piece of writing. Here’s how I arrived at your blog: I write about old books and I discovered your father’s bookplate in an 1908 volume about art appreciation. I folded some of your dad’s life details from this post into my own post — — because I thought it rounded it out nicely. I’m always looking for the people and stories behind the ephemera. …. If you would like this book back, for your family’s history, I would be *happy* to send it your way. Although, after reading about all of the struggles your family had with your dad’s pack-rat accumulations after his death, I would fully understand if you have no desire to re-acquire an item from a collection that was so difficult to dispense with. Either way, peace and best wishes to you. — Chris Otto

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