my dad

This past weekend, we had my father's memorial service at Anaheim United Methodist Church in Anaheim, California.  I had prepared a eulogy for him, but since I'm such an absolute cry-baby, I asked my good friend, Kieran Scott, to read what I had written, since I knew I wouldn't get through it without completely losing it.  It took me quite awhile to figure out what to write- what does one write about someone you've known your entire life to sum them up?  In the end, I just decided to start writing and see where it took me, and just held my breath and hoped for the best.  Kieran read this masterfully - as I knew he would - and it seemed to go over quite well.

But I really wasn't prepared for the reviews I did get.  I was truly astounded - one of my cousins, a woman who has known my dad FAR longer than I have said that I wrote the things she thought of - a compliment of the highest order for any writer. Several people wanted copies.  Instead of sending them out, I thought I would just use my blog and share it with everyone.  I hope you all enjoy it.

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When eulogizing one’s father, there is a temptation for one to go through the person’s life and give a recounting of everything that this person meant to you.  It’s a tried and true technique, although it can be a somewhat tiresome practice.

Let me assure you that I will not be bucking this tradition.

As all of you know, my dad was a very intelligent man.  He grasped some very heady concepts, and could make salient and cohesive arguments on a great many topics.  Broad topics like history, politics and the US Constitution were his playground, and more specific topics such as the reasons for the beginnings of World War II, the lives of the actors in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s were his swing set and monkey bars on that playground.  He could internalize these periods of historic movement and could add color and richness to them in a way that most can never do.  He read voraciously about these and many, many other topics- not only to be informed, but to challenge himself and his beliefs.  He would even occasionally change his mind and stance on these items.

But, what separated my father from a host of other pseudo-intellectuals was his ability to relate to people and find those things that would resonate in their hearts; to appeal to that without making them feel uncomfortable.  He could find that area – no matter how small – and place those topics inside others as to be able to give them a desire to find out more.

You see, Dad wasn’t just intelligent - he was smart.  Intelligence is the measure of being able to retain and recall facts and data, but smart is the ability to know when, where and to whom to do that with.  This not only made him a fantastic conversationalist, but it propelled him to the very top of his chosen profession, that of a teacher of children.

As his child, I can tell you that to be in his house and have those conversations was a sometimes daunting task.  My father was not just talkative and inquisitive – a sometimes defeating personal trait when you’re 16 and trying to pull the wool over his eyes – but also he also had the innate ability to tell when you didn’t know your stuff.  And, he would mercilessly call you on it, as some of his students who are here today can readily attest to.  If you hadn’t studied the topic you were talking about, he would know immediately, and then propel the discussion headlong in to the very thing you knew the least about.  God help you.

But, here’s the thing- right behind his having caught you would come the forgiveness.  If you didn’t see it, he would offer it first, and then show you the error you had made in a way that made you want to do better.

My father taught me many, many things.  Oh, sure- he taught me things like how to ride a bike, how to build a model airplane, how to train our dog- all the “Dad Things” – and he would make those terrible “Dad Jokes” we all know about.  He taught me scholastic things like history and helped me with US Government classes in high school – how could he not? – and even went as far as to enlist help from his teacher friends on topics that I didn’t understand well like math and science.  He did all that, as any good father would do.  In my early life, my mother and father divorced, and he taught me how to move on from something traumatic, merely by his being “present” and engaged.  When I rebelled (which I did a lot) he taught me that he wasn’t interested in being my friend; rather, he taught me the value of being my father, something I did with my own children.  All of these things are the stuff of a “good father”, but there was one thing my father taught me that supersedes all others, and unfortunately it is something that I don’t see much of these days.

My father taught me that the true measure of a man is doing the right thing even when no one is looking.

This means that it really doesn’t matter what visual trappings your life may have.  Having the appearance of being protective and nurturing means absolutely nothing if you can’t do it when there is no one around to see it.  This means that, to be a man, you have to not only provide, but to do so authentically and without reservation.  You always put others first, and you never ask for consideration above anyone else.  Failures will happen, and when they do, it is your election, and your election alone to either dwell on them or to see them as lessons to learn from, for life is a series of lessons that no one truly ever arrives at a final destination.  Material possession, money, fame and power are fleeting things, and at the end of the day, all one really has is their own personal integrity.

This lesson is one that I learned over time.  To be honest, I did not embrace it right away.  And, even though it was paramount to my father, he never berated me for it.  He was patient with me - yes, I did frustrate him many, many times – and sometimes that frustration came out at higher volume – but there is no doubt in my mind that my dad ever did anything other than to love and accept me – even though and especially when I did not deserve it- because, you see that is part of the “do the right thing even though no one is looking” process.  Now that I am much older, I do understand this and I attempt to do this very thing each and every day.

My dad taught me that people matter.  Their well-being is something that we each should be constantly aware of.  This isn’t to garner favor with them , but rather it is just the right thing to do all the time.  Consistently.  Without fail.  Without a personal safety net, but with complete and total abandon.  Do the right thing and let the chips fall where they may.

And, through all of this his cornball sense of wit would never diminish. Everyone here remembers his Nebraska Cornhusker and Northwestern hats, and his shirts emblazoned with “Bald Guys Rule” or “Ugly, Mean and Nasty”.  And he always had metaphors for whatever was happening that would defy description – and there was no end to them, either. He had a quip for all occasions.  My father had a truly unique sense of humor, even in the oddest of times.  I’ll finish with a personal story to illustrate:

One night, when I was about 17, I did the typical rebellious youth thing of going out and partying with friends.  I returned home at about 2AM, and let’s just say that I wasn’t shy about consuming some “adult beverages” at that party.  I stood on the front stoop of my house, popping breath mints at an alarming rate so as to cover my “Eau de Pabst Blue Ribbon” cologne.  I thought I was completely cool and in control, when in fact I was wavering around like I had been spun in a centrifuge, and my voice, while normally coherent, now sounded like Floyd the Barber from the Andy Griffith Show.  I unlocked the door and stepped in the house, intending to just go to my room and go to bed.

Instead, I’m met just inside the door by my father.  He’s in his bathrobe, leaning in the kitchen doorway.

“You mind telling me where you’ve been?” he asked, flatly.

“Oh.  I was out with friends and lost track of time.” I thought I said.  What I really said was unintelligible.

“Fine.  Go to bed.”, he answered.

That was it!  I had escaped.  Except…….

The next morning at about 6:30AM,  I awoke to the sensation that someone was in my room.  My head felt like I had been hit by a Louisville slugger, and my stomach was deciding which direction to push everything to- it felt like all directions.  As I opened my eyes, I saw my dad standing in my doorway, and he’s holding a small saucepan and a wooden spoon in his hand.  Before I can say anything, he literally leaps on to my bed, pinning my arms at my side.  With a quick hand motion, he runs my window shade up with a “WHACK!”, and sunlight immediately fills my room and my stomach begins to take flight.  He then takes the saucepan and holds it right in front of my eyes, and starts hitting it with the wooden spoon – it’s like a jackhammer in my head.  He then drops the pan and spoon, and covers my rapidly filling mouth with his hand.

“GOOD MORNING!” he yells in my face.  He’s got the most evil grin you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t you barf on me.  And don’t you believe for one second that I’m dumb enough to believe that you ‘lost track of time’ last night.”, he says.   And then he sits there, smiling at me, for almost a full minute.  He finally let me up, and I raced to the bathroom.  When I came back to my room, he was just sitting on the edge of my bed.  I could tell that he had been laughing, but when he sees me he gets a stern look on his face.

“If you want to go drinking with your buddies, I can’t really stop you.  But I can tell you that you had better not lie to me about it again.”, was all he said, and he stood up and walked out of the room.

Years later, he and I recalled that morning.  At first, he didn’t remember it, but as he did he told me that his first thought when I returned home was, “Oh, thank God he’s ok”.  His second thought was that this was a “teachable moment” (he actually used that term before Mr. Obama did) but he knew that he’d have to pick his time to teach it, and judging from the shape I was in that wasn’t it.  He went to bed not really knowing what he was going to do, and only formulated his response when he woke up that morning.  I asked him why he did that, and his response was priceless:

“Because I wanted to make sure that you understand that I loved you, and that wasn’t something I really approved of.  Acting like a kid is one thing, but lying about it isn’t something that a real man would do.”

And, right there, is why I love my Dad and will always aspire to be like him.