A while back, I happened to be able to solve a seemingly insurmountable problem with a pocketknife and a little patience. The fellow I was helping was shocked.
“How did you learn to do that?’ he asked. I shrugged.
“My dad taught me.”
It was a lovely spring day in May 2001 when he told Miss Lois he was tired, and wanted to take a nap. She was sitting in the chair beside him, holding his hand. They both went to sleep. Mother woke up a while later, but the Old Man had gone on home to be with the Lord.
In the days followed, I had to use a lot of the skills he’d taught me, ranging from diplomacy and patience to fixing a door lock. As a man, I think our fathers have to be gone before we understand truly what they tried to teach us, and why.
One of the biggest things he taught me was to love God. Papa was never a fire-breathing, extroverted Christian, but he was a Christian. Like all Christians, he still sinned occasionally (that’s how I learned how to curse) but he taught me that God and one’s daddy will always forgive you.
Papa taught me to be a newspaperman, not a journalist or just a reporter. He also taught me some other skills, since he wanted to be sure I could always care for my family.
Papa taught me that one’s country deserves one’s love and loyalty, and that loyalty often means speaking out against the knee-jerk screaming crowd. Papa also taught me to love my state, the South, and my community, not necessarily in that order.
Papa loved baseball; before I was born he coached, managed and played some semi-pro ball, back in the golden years of local baseball. Although I was always a lousy player, I tried, but I was a big, slow-moving boy. Papa had much the same problem when he was my age – except he was flatfooted, not fat – so he taught me to put everything I had behind every swing.
Once my coaches realized I could consistently knock the tar out of a baseball, they were a little more prone to let me play. Some of my proudest moments were when I could hear the Old Man’s voice in the stands, “That’s it, boy, that’s it. Show’em what you got…”
For one thing, he worked so much that it was a treat for him to make it to one of my ballgames. For another, it was my father that was cheering me on, even if I struck out. Other parents might yell at the umpire or criticize their kids from the stand, but Papa would simply “Boo!” if the call was outlandish, or explain to me on the way home how I could have done better.
Papa taught me to love music, mainly Dixieland Jazz, a style now seemingly forgotten. I’ll never forget how, when I was a sophisticated 22-year-old, I took Mother and Papa out for dinner at a jazz club in Wilmington. Papa was polite, but not impressed. Later, when a fill-in pianist took the tiny stage with his wife, Papa’s ears perked like a coonhound that’s heard someone bay ‘treed’.
“That boy’s got it,” he said, and waited until the first song was winding down. Papa went up and spoke the pianist, shaking his hand and asking him “Do you know how to play….”
The pianist did, and after a while the crowd stopped talking and started listening as the fill-in act became the hit of the night. The piano went from plain to popular in half a minute.
“That’s how we used to play,” Papa said, reminding me again of how the Old Man wasn’t always a newspaperman. He was many things, depending on the time and place and circumstance.
He was a gin-palace speakeasy saxophone player during the last of Prohibition; even with old photos I can’t see my teetotaling Papa as a hard-drinking Dixieland player.
Papa was a hardware merchant before he became a newspaperman; our Saturday trips were to general stores and old-fashioned hardware dealers where the lights were dim and the stock sometimes dusty. It was in places like that Papa could find a tumbler for an antique rimlock or a whetstone of just the proper size – or a first pocketknife for his youngest son.
Papa taught me that you should enjoy what you do, and do your best. If either of those conditions can’t be met, then it’s time to look elsewhere. To do otherwise, whether in a job or a hobby or a church, is dishonest and unfair to everyone involved.
Papa taught me that loyalty and respect are repaid with loyalty and respect. He taught me that while all people are different, and some are misguided or wrong or just plain idiots, everyone deserves a fair shake. Papa taught me that every single person deserves a few minutes if they make the effort to come see you.
Some of the kindest cards and letters after his death came from people with whom Papa completely, utterly disagreed politically and socially – but they still liked and respected him, since he was always fair.
Papa taught me about the value of cards and letters long before email became common. He used email some, in his last year, but he never really trusted email. He was instead a prolific letter-writer; I’m ashamed to admit that while I do write more cards and letters than some folks, my volume is nothing compared to that of the Old Man.
Papa taught me to fiercely love my wife and my family, and to be devoted to both. He taught me to hunt and fish responsibly – even though he didn’t hunt, he made sure I had good mentors.
Papa taught me to love dogs and cats, and that there is no sorrier individual on the earth than someone who will abuse an animal, a child or a woman.
He taught me that a baby is a baby, regardless of when it comes out of the womb or if it even has been born.
He taught me that above all else a man’s calling is to provide for and protect children, women and those who are truly in danger through no fault of their own.
He taught me a tax is a tax, regardless of what the government calls it, and it should be paid promptly and handled responsibly.
Papa taught me that gossip is for people of small minds and no manners.
He taught me how to dress, and when and where and how to wear a hat. To wear at least a coat and tie to work is to show respect for one’s customers and employer, whether you be a newspaperman or a hardware merchant. He also taught me that gentlemen in our family never left home without a hat. It’s an archaic habit he continued to his death, and one I still practice.
Papa taught me that a lady is a lady until she proves herself otherwise, and she should always be treated as a lady. He also taught me there is not a single member of the fairer sex that does not have some feature that one can harmlessly compliment – and that one should point out these good features, since it just might brighten a lady’s day.
Papa taught me that rude behavior has no place, accomplishes nothing, and begets more rude behavior. The best revenge – and example – is to show a rude person you won’t stoop to their levels. That requires controlling one’s temper, and I admit, sometimes my mother’s temper overpowers my father’s teachings.
Papa taught me there is history in graveyards, honor in old houses, and joy in the simple things of life. He taught me that nobody owes me a danged thing, except what I earn myself.
Papa taught me all that, and more.
He just never taught me how not to miss him.
He was a newspaperman, yes, but he was so much more. He was a husband, a gentleman, an historian, a craftsman, a philosopher, a warrior-poet in his own way, and most of all, a father.
And even though I know someday I will see him again, I still miss him every single day.
To my readers: the other week, as I do every year, I wrote a column to fulfill a promise I made to my father, as he was dying.
This column is a promise I made to myself the same day, and I thank you for helping me keep it.
