I have on occasion written about my dad here in ye old blog, but for Father's
Day I am inclined to record a few more in-depth thoughts about him. Last week,
he would have celebrated his 86th birthday. Fair warning — this will probably be
long, and it is mainly for my own edification and perhaps for any readers who
knew Dad. I might mention that it's a hot, muggy day, and I wish I was at the
beach. From the time I was 18 until my mid 30s, we owned a time-share unit at
Regency Towers in Myrtle
Beach, SC, and our assigned period was the third week in June, which usually
encompassed Dad's birthday and/or Father's Day. I always looked forward to
going, particularly when I was in my 20s because, well, it was the beach, and
there were lots of young women to chase after (though I can't say I was all that
good at catching them). But it became a tradition of special family time, for
relaxation and togetherness. The good old days, those were. And though cynics
will always tell you there was never any such thing, it's all subjective. To me,
the good old days were when the people I loved most were still alive. So many
are gone now.
Dad came from a family of meager means, but he was smarter than a whip and
dedicated to building a comfortable life for himself and his family. For 30
years, he worked for Dupont, mostly in Martinsville, VA, where I grew up. He had
simple tastes and was pretty frugal, but he was sometimes known to splurge on
the family, especially around Christmastime. For weeks before the holiday, right
up through Christmas Eve, he'd often have to "run up the street" to pick up
something he'd thought of for my brother and me. He did enjoy his shopping, and
he was a bargain hunter. If he bought something but saw it cheaper somewhere
else, he'd turn right around, return the item, get his money back, and go
purchase it at the better price. (This could sometimes be frustrating for us
young 'uns when we just wanted to go back home.) His main indulgence for himself
came in the form of a couple of Ford Mustang convertibles, one a 67 model (pale
yellow with a black top), the other a 72 (fire-engine red with a black top). I
learned how to drive in that 72 Mustang, and Mom used to quip that Dad wanted to
be buried in that car. It didn't last
that long, but he did keep that car
until sometime in the late 1980s.
His favorite avocation was stamp collecting. He had a massive collection of
postage stamps from all over the world, and in the late 60s or early 70s, he
started a stamp business called Virginia Stamp Exchange, which became quite
lucrative for him. As an adolescent, I took a brief shine to the activity, but
it wasn't one of those that lasted. Still, I knew enough about it that, in my
late teens, he paid me some small wages to help him out with it when the
business overwhelmed him.
Dad loved his golf. He wasn't exactly a great player, but for years he golfed
with a regular bunch of gentlemen at Forest Park Country Club, and when I was a
teenager, I took up the game and spent many weekends on the course with him and
his cronies. Now, at home, he rarely uttered language stronger than "Dadgummit!"
or "Friggit!" but on the course, he could sure let some words fly. Most of the
epithets I currently use for bad drivers and other annoying assholes I learned
from Dad on the golf course.
Now, Dad was generally a patient man — to a point. Once you passed that point,
you needed to watch out. He probably swatted me a time or two when I was a kid,
and lord knows I deserved it, but his main disciplinary power came from his
voice. He could bend steel with a few words, sometimes low and growling,
sometimes sharp and piercing, designed to paralyze his target with dread.
Whenever Mum caught me doing something terribly wrong (a not infrequent
occurrence), the worst thing I could possibly hear was "I'm going to have to
tell your father about this." Chilling, horrifying words, those. Along those
lines, back in the late 90s, his brother Gordon came for a visit, and we were
all sitting around the sunroom table while the two of them reminisced about
their sordid past (and my lord, did they have some stories). Deadpan, Gordon
said, "Carl, you may not be able to relate to this, but our dad had a temper." I
thought Dad was going to choke to death laughing. I have largely inherited my
father's disposition, which came down from his father before him. Clearly, we
came by it honestly.
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Dad on his honeymoon, circa 1956
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Like Mom, Dad was a Christian — his father was a Methodist minister, as a matter
of fact — with simple faith; no fire and brimstone judgment, no biblical
scholarship, just a heartfelt following of the Golden Rule and trusting that the
lord would lead him where he needed to be in life. Perhaps the most telling
example of Dad's faith was when several church members were gathered at our
place for dinner. Dad knew that the choir was trying to raise money for a trip —
I can't remember specifically where — and they had come up short on funds.
Quietly, Dad called the choir director into his office, asked how much they
needed, and then wrote a check for that amount. He gave it to the choir director
on the condition that he not reveal where that money came from. He didn't want
any attention drawn to himself, only that those folks get to go on their trip.
That was largely how he lived his faith. No showmanship, no fanfare, just quiet
sincerity and deep care for others.
Politically, Dad was conservative, of the Eisenhower persuasion; the current GOP
would have revolted him. He instilled in me a deep sense of personal
responsibility and compassion. But one of his strengths was seeing and
understanding alternative viewpoints, and whenever we had discussions of any
depth, he always presented me with thoughtful counters to my points, regardless
of whether he believed in them himself. He wanted me to understand that personal
decisions are not made in a vacuum, and to make sound ones, I needed to gather
as much information as possible before committing to an idea or goal. Yet,
almost paradoxically, he hated indecisiveness, and he always pressed me to not
waffle at decision-making time. This has been a powerful motivator in my life,
the downside being that, especially in my younger days, I made lots of quick
decisions, either not understanding or ignoring the consequences of rash action.
A difficult balancing act, to be sure, but it was one Dad mastered from an early
age.
In the late 1960s, Dad was afflicted with a very severe case of diabetes, the
complications of which eventually took his life. Despite dedicated effort on his
part, and Mom's, he could never keep his blood sugar regulated, and he had
terrible insulin reactions that one could have mistaken for epileptic fits.
These were violent and painful, and they scared me to death when I was a kid. In
later years, he lived with endless pain, eventually to the point that he could
no longer work. Fortunately, Dupont offered him early retirement, with excellent
benefits, at age 52, so he was able to still have a few quality years with Mom
before he became completely physically debilitated. He died in 2001, at the
too-young age of 70.
Dad and I had our conflicts, diverging opinions and philosophies, and outright
personality clashes from time to time. But according to Mom, at no time did he
ever stop being proud of me or respecting my views, even when he could not
understand them (I
was a bit weird). He supported me when I didn't
deserve it more times than I could count. Yes, Dad had plenty of flaws, but as
an increasingly self-aware individual, he never ceased struggling to overcome
them. His life was testimony his success. He made me proud to be his son, and to
this day, he is my hero. With my mom's health failing, and me having to take
over more and more of her personal affairs, I feel I need him more than ever.
And he is with me.
I miss you and love you, Dad.
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Dad coached my City Recreation League basketball team, circa 1970.
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