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| The submitted photograph of my father taken at the wedding of his granddaughter Molly (July 2009) |
On June 13th I
received an email from The Washington
Post inviting me to submit for consideration a personal story about my
father to run (if selected) on washingtonpost.com as part of a Father's Day feature. The theme or prompt for submissions was “What’s a story that makes you proud of your Dad?” The submission format included some
basic information about authors, a request for a description of the father
being written about, a space to provide the story itself, a place to submit a
photograph of the subject, and a concluding inquiry, “How has this story shaped your opinion of your Dad? How has it shaped you?” There was no stated limit on length for
submissions and in fact the format stated at one point, “Don’t worry about rambling; the more detailed the better.”
I knew immediately and exactly
the story I wanted to finally commit to writing. AND, I thought if by some wild chance the story were selected
for use, it would make a nice Father’s Day gift to my 90-year-old father.
I submitted my story on June
13th and received a thank you for the submission. My story was not selected for use today,
but you can see and read those that were selected here. Since my story was not selected for
publication, that now leaves me free to share the story here and offer it as a
Father’s Day gift to my father!
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HAPPY FATHER’S DAY, DAD!!
What’s a story that makes you proud of your Dad?
When I was about 10 years
old, we were living in what was then called Salem Depot, NH. It was on the
border with Lawrence, Massachusetts. My father was the Operating
Superintendent/Assistant Manager of the Sears store in Lawrence and he worked
long hours and often on weekends and evenings. We lived in a fairly new
development in Salem in the second house my parents had ever owned -- a
four-bedroom Cape Cod with four children between ages 1 and 10 and a dog.
My mother was a Registered
Nurse who still worked part-time to supplement the family income
and because she loved the work (and probably the break from four kids and a
dog). My father had his hands full pursuing his career, being the principal
support for a young family, and trying to assist around the home so my mother
could also keep her hand in her nursing career. The last thing my father needed was an irritating incident that made no sense; but kids being kids, we supplied them
on a regular basis -- and I provided my share.
One day (and this was in
the days of party-line telephones), I answered our phone when the woman next
door was calling for my mother -- who I am sure must have been working at the hospital in Lawrence. I explained the situation politely, but somewhat shyly in
the way a 10-year-old boy would do.
She asked me to give my mother the message that she had called. I
agreed. She said thank you. And then, just before I hung up (not knowing of
course who might be listening on the party line), the rascal in me took hold
for no reason other than an innocent desire to flip the usual response. There
was absolutely no malice or hurt intended because I knew and liked this lady
who lived across the street and who had young children also. Without thinking
-- or actually thinking I was probably making a joke of some kind -- I closed
the brief conversation and her polite ending with an
easy, lighthearted, "You're not welcome." And then I quickly went
back to whatever I had been doing without a second thought or a care.
A day or so later, my
mother and the lady next door must have connected to chat and of course my
flippant response to her was revealed. My mother was an equal opportunity
disciplinarian in the household and things of that nature were not simply left
to my father; but as I recall it, the incident was not discussed until my
father got home from work, we had supper and my siblings went on to watch a little television.
I was called into
conference with both parents and the phone call content was accurately revealed
as though there had been a transcript made of it. BUT, since I had intended no
harm and actually thought I was being somewhat humorous in setting the usual
polite phone ending on its head, I did not realize the misdemeanor I had
committed. And I think my parents quickly understood that I was simply young
and impish and had intended no harm by my words.
Spanking was so rare in
our household that I am hard pressed to even recall more than a handful of such
incidents -- and these days they are actually the subject of much fun and laughter
when they are recalled at family gatherings. The telephone incident, I am proud
to say, never became one of those rare spankings. It became something much
more. Something that I have often thought back on and have related to my own
sons and others.
My father said softly,
"Come with me. We're going for a little walk." We went outside and
eased down the driveway as my father very slowly and gently explained that what
I had said to our neighbor was wrong. It was not funny. She was a nice lady and
a friend to my mother and she especially deserved polite responses from my
siblings and me. We talked it over for a minute or two until I think my father
thought I understood and would not do such a thing again. I thought that was
the end of it and that I was on my way back into the house to watch TV with my
siblings. But then my father said
that there was only one thing left to do and then we could forget it ever
happened. I thought it might be one of those very rare spankings, but he said,
"YOU need to go next door and apologize to her. I'll walk to the yard with
you, but you have to go up, knock on the door and apologize to her. Tell her
you are sorry, you did not intend to hurt her feelings or to be mean to her . . .
and tell her it will never happen again." I froze because I was a ten-year-old
boy and did not speak to many adults outside of my parents and teachers at
school. I actually wished he had decided to spank me instead.
It was an agonizingly long
walk across the narrow residential street and a very lonely walk up to the
front door as my father stood back at the border of the yard with the street. I
was petrified and looked back at him several times in the short walk hoping he
would give me a reprieve or at least accompany me at the last minute, but he
stood there slowly waving me on. It seemed to take an eternity before the door
was answered by our neighbor despite my almost audible prayer that there please
be no one home. I rushed through my eyes-averting apology as our neighbor
listened. I think she even tried to suppress a small smile as I glanced up once
or twice (just to see if she was listening and what her reaction was) and saw
her looking past me to my father out at the yard's edge.
When the deed was finally
over and I walked back toward my father, I saw him smiling slightly past me
toward the front door and then I heard it close slowly behind me. My father put
his arm around my shoulder and we walked back home. Not another word was said
about the incident or the apology that I recall -- and my father has never been
a man at a loss for words or one who was incapable of making the same point in
several different ways!
How has this story shaped your
opinion of your Dad? How has it
shaped you?
I think at ten years old I
was just beginning to understand that my father had a lot of responsibility
both at work and in the family and that my foolish incident with the adult
neighbor next door was an unnecessary intrusion on the little time he had to
relax at home. But he did not treat it as a crime needing swift and simple
punishment. He recognized it for what he made it into -- and that surely took
him more time than some quick punishment. He saw an opportunity to teach, not
punish, and he made it into a lesson -- one I have recalled for the last 51
years. It made me realize that my father could be patient and be a teacher --
and that being a father was no easy thing!
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Copyright 2013, John D. Tew
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