A FATHER’S EXAMPLE HAS POWER
4-18-08

 

I understand what Burt Reynolds was talking about when he said a son is not a man until his father tells him he is. He may actually be a man to the world but he will not feel like a man until his father gives him a psychological high five.

 

My father was a true jack-of-all-trades. I never saw any kind of home repairman at our home in my entire life. He was a carpenter, plumber, electrician, stonemason and a master auto mechanic.

 

The only time he came close to calling a repairman was when a large section of plaster fell in the kitchen. He went out and bought some plaster and a trowel and repaired it. He called out, “Nora! Kids! Come here!”

 

We ran to the kitchen where he was beaming with pride over his handiwork. As we all stood there smiling in admiration, the patch made a slurping sound and drooped down a few inches, before splattering on the kitchen counter.

 

“I know what I did wrong,” he confidently muttered as he mixed another batch of plaster. In a half hour he called out again, “Nora! Kids! Come look!”

 

The same thing happened: a slurp, a droop and a splatter. Dad was a preacher but he came dangerously close to cussing. Then he went right back to the trowel and the third batch stuck. More than fifty years later, that patch is still right where he put it and it is seamless.

 

To make things rougher on me, my younger brother was a lot like him. Dad took great pride in him but he was constantly ribbing me. I knew I was a home handyman disaster area.

 

In the plaster repair job and many other demonstrations of excellence, he taught me tenacity. So when I was in my twenties my old car needed a complete brake job. I bought a repair manual and put it up on his mechanic’s rack in his basement. He offered to help me but I said, “I want to do this job myself.” I am sure I heard him giggle as he went back up the stairs.

 

I used every bad word I had ever heard and invented a few, but I installed those brake shoes and cylinders. I road-tested it and that sucker would stop on a dime and give you nine cents change. No success in my life has given me more satisfaction than completing that brake job.

 

After the road test, I returned to his place to wash my hands. He was sitting at the table working a crossword.

 

“Look at these hands, Dad,” I said as I showed him all the nicks and scratches. “Yeah, what about them, son?” he asked.

 

“Those are the hands of a guitar picker. If I am lucky, I will make enough money in my life to hire someone to fix the brakes on my car. But I did it this time to show you I could. I’d appreciate it from here on if you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

 

He seemed surprised and said, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. You have no idea how much I’d like to be able to play a guitar like you do. One man’s gift is another man’s craving.”

 

I know for a fact that he could not carry a tune but no one could convince me he could not learn it if he set his mind to it. I have never seen a man with such an indomitable will.

 

The six months I was campaigning for office, remembering his tenacity was one of the things that kept me going. I only had two suits but I wore both of them out. I lost 20 pounds and my right hand was so sore on Election Day that it hurt to shake hands. When I weakened, I’d see that plaster go “slurp, droop, splatter” and grab my trowel and hit the road renewed.

 

Thanks, Dad.