I was the only child of two only-children. So, not much aunt-uncle-cousin action in my life. Which may explain the intense focus on my parents, especially Dad.
I’ve mentioned him before in this ongoing series of personal Memories. (They are all linked below.) How he taught me the alphabet pre-kindergarten by helping me cut out, sand, and paint little plywood letters of the entire alphabet many times over. Which I then endlessly arranged in pretend words on the carpet.
And here I am three-quarters of a century later, still arranging those same letters, only these days on a laptop.
Things my father said shaped my life and my boys’ lives, and I hope their children's lives. One message he left, he never said to me.
A heavy smoker himself, he probably saved my life by teaching me that I didn’t want to smoke. He bought my first pack of cigarettes so I wouldn’t start sneaking them. They were foul. So, I never started
Dad was a quiet, friendly sort, almost shy in public. Sometimes, I’d be next to him when he’d mutter some observation that just broke me up. He was funnier than Jack Benny.
I did get some spankings, of course, probably for talking back to my mother. Dad had rules. Because he explained them, I obeyed them.
For example, the animals. I learned the value of life through caring for dependent creatures by being responsible for them — a dog, cats, horse — that included removing bounteous fecal material.
Before school, they ate and drank first. Then, I got breakfast. No discussion. No excuses, except for the mumps.
No one had TV in my early years. At first, people invited neighbors in to witness the amazing device with a screen the size of a dinner plate. When we bought a used DuMont set, I had to play outside until 5:30, which was Howdy Doody Time. (Years later, I actually interviewed Buffalo Bob.)
On weekends, I would help Dad in our back lot. Around noon, he’d say, “You look like you could use a cheeseburger.”
It was uncanny. He was never wrong. Now, when I note that my grandchildren look like they could use some ice cream, it’s also uncanny. I am never wrong.
We were on a party phone line, and there were two ladies who were always talking and talking, even when I wanted to call Billy or Dan. One afternoon, I’d had enough.
I picked up the phone. Still talking. “Yak Yak Yak! When are you old biddies gonna hang up?”
Unfortunately, our party line had only one family with a boy in it.
My mother was embarrassed, therefore, angry. That evening, Dad took me aside, knelt down by my face. “We don’t do that,” he said simply. Then winked. He was right about everything.
So, I didn’t.
Dad had occasional advice. “When you have something to do, do it now. Then, you’ll have time for fun stuff later.” I probably should have thought about that the past few days when I could have been writing this.
I realized later his parenting style was very Socratic. One Sunday, no matter how many times I yanked the cord, the stupid lawnmower defied my efforts to start it. Dad happened to walk by, “I’m sure you checked the gas tank.”
I hadn’t, of course. It was bone dry. So, he passed on that lesson in privacy without confronting me with my own stupidity.
Dad had a phrase, “Minus to a plus.” It was okay to make a mistake, as long as you learned something, anything, from it every time so you’d never make the same error again.
“Think of how far ahead of everyone else you’ll be when you grow up and avoid all these early mistakes.”
One evening in Little League, I attempted a bunt. But I had my fingers in the wrong place. So the ball smashed them and dropped dead at my feet. Instant out!
On the way to the bench, I heard Dad call out, “Minus to a plus.” I wanted to give him a minus in his plus.
But, of course, he was right.
Playing catch with Tim one day, I let loose one of my trademark fastballs. It soared over his head straight through a neighbor’s garage window.
The man wasn’t angry. He just wanted 35 cents to replace it.
I failed to mention this to Dad for quite a few days. When I finally confessed, he said, “Thank you for being honest and telling me.” And handed me 35 cents.
Only years later did I wonder how Dad already knew the neighbor wanted exactly 35 cents.
When I was maybe in sixth grade, I fell in love with a Hallicrafter’s Shortwave Radio that I could use to eavesdrop on the world 24 hours a day. It cost $150, which was real money in the 1950s. It still is.
“Do you have $150?” Dad asked. My answer was in the negative.
“I have a lot of work you could do to earn it,” he said. Thus began two long years of after-school work – mowing, raking, digging, shoveling snow, removing rotten crap-apples by the bushel basket while hornets hovered.
I still have that shortwave radio. From my cold dead hands.
I’m afraid I disappointed Dad a couple times. I heard him crying in private only twice in my life. Once was my fault. I’d been a snotty teenager. I still regret it.
Dad also helped interpret girls for me. It took me a week to screw up the courage to call a pretty girl in eighth grade. I forget her name now. But I asked if she would like to go to the movies with me on Friday.
She said, “No.” And hung up.
Once again, my father just happened to walk by. “You know,” he said, “there will come a day when you won’t even remember her name.”
In ninth grade, on Wednesdays, I had to stay in our little country town at a friend’s house for dance class later back at school. Toby’s mother left on an errand and said, “No football in the house now.”
I went down the hall for a long pass from Toby. I was so focused on making the catch, I ran straight through the glass storm door.
Not to worry. I did make the catch. But there was a lot of broken glass all over. And then, I noticed some blood. A lot of blood, actually. It was pulsing down my arm and off my little finger.
So, I walked to the nearest doctor’s office. He was closed Wednesdays. The nurse saw a pool of blood assembling on the floor, wrapped a towel on my arm, and steered me to the other doctor a couple blocks away.
I calmly walked there. The nurse was a former babysitter. She was waving from the side door. Turns out, I had sliced an artery and needed nine stitches. I could show you the scar if you want.
Did I mention I did make the catch?
Then, I went to dance class.
When I got home for dinner, prepared to accept with appropriate modesty a medal for courage and self-reliance, my mother was furious. I mean spitting angry.
It seems in my absence, Nurse Janet had phoned to inquire how Andy was after that bloody accident and all those stitches that my mother knew nothing about.
When Dad arrived home, I expressed a considerable degree of puzzlement over Mom’s lack of bravery appreciation. “When mothers get scared,” he said, “sometimes they react with anger.”
Which was one of many encounters with women over the years that made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
Not long after that incident, I answered the phone. It was Grandma, my wonderful grandma, whose holiday visit was the year's highlight. What a nice surprise in the middle of the afternoon! She needed to talk to her daughter.
I went outside where she was working. I told her with great joy that Grandma was on the phone. “Oh my God!” Mom said. “No!” And ran off.
The call, as I guess Mom suspected, was because her father died.
One of his possessions we inherited was a beautiful silver .38 revolver. Firearms of many kinds were all over rural Ohio in those days. Autumn was a dangerous time to be a deer or pheasant there or a little kid playing frontiersman in the bushes.
Dad’s childhood came on a dairy farm in rural western Canada in the years before electricity. “You need to know about guns,” Dad had said. So, we took a thick board out back and leaned it against a tree.
Dad pulled out this shiny pistol. “Here,” he said. “It’s not loaded.”
I reached for the gun. With no warning, the thing went off with a huge bang and blasted a large hole in the board. I may have yelled an unpleasant word. Dad was just standing there, all calm and fatherly.
“You said the gun wasn’t loaded!” I screamed.
“Everyone says the gun’s not loaded,” Dad replied.
That’s another thing my father said.
This is the 14th in an occasional series of personal Memories. The others are below. I hope they trigger your own memories to share in the Comments.
The Terrifyingly Wonderful Day I Drove an Indy Car
When I Went on Henry Kissinger's Honeymoon
When Grandma Arrived for That Holiday Visit
Practicing Journalism the Old-Fashioned Way
When Hal Holbrook Took a Day to Tutor a Teen on Art
The Night I Met Saturn That Changed My Life
High School Was Hard for Me, Until That One Evening
When Dad Died, He left a Haunting Message That Reemerged Just Now
My Father's Sly Trick About Smoking That Saved My Life
His Name Was Edgar. Not Ed. Not Eddie. But Edgar.
Join the conversation as a VIP Member