My run in with one from the greatest generation.

Maybe I do talk too much but yesterday, my belief that it never hurts to be friendly and greet others in a friendly way was affirmed.  I went into a doctor's office to pay the final installment of my surgery bill from the fall.  Closest to the receptionist window was a man sitting down, dressed with kacki shirt and pants, and a baseball type hat that said "WWII Veteran".  Despite being in his 80's, and sitting, I could tell he was trim and healthy looking. 

Finding the first couple of opening sentences is the hardest part to striking up a conversation, but if a person wants to talk, most anything will do.  After a little small talk, I said "Can I ask you a question?"  The implication is that it might be a little more personal than the small talk that preceded this.  "My dad was a WWII veteran.  I have a friend that is a WWII veteran.  I have friends who's father's were WWII veterans.  They all seem to say the same thing.  That is, WWII veterans don't talk much if at all about their experience in the war."  His response was "What's there to talk about?"  But then, he knew had an interested listener. 

Over the next thirty minutes, he shared with me little snippets of his 22 year career in the army and CIA.  He had lost friends, experienced the pride of helping win WWII and his amazement at the lack of support upon returning from Viet Nam. He admitted, he had to follow orders and do things he wasn't proud of.   He now spends lots of his time visiting other WWII veterans in nursing homes and rehab centers.  And funerals. 

I talked a little too about my dad, my friend the pilot, and my brothers that served during the Viet Nam era. 

Finally, his wife came out carrying a little oxygen tank.  Listening to his stories, and thinking of my own father and friend that served in WWII, this old man touch my heart.  I don't know why I get so emotional, and don't really need to know.  When it came time to shake hands to say goodbye, I was too emotional to talk.  Our goodbye consisted of his very kind eyes meeting mine, a firm hand shake and a nod.  He took his wife by the arm and carefully guided her to the door. As I thought about what his life might have been like,  I sent him a thought. Job well done.

Father's Day thoughts on the old man

As father day approaches, several things come to mind.  Obviously, we all have dads.  It is a universal experience of sort, yet one profoundly personal. My goal is to share a little bit of my story in hopes that it resonates with you and I hope I get the chance to hear some of your story.

Most of you know I have a daughter, and now I have a grandson. It is wondrous to watch the, isn’t it.  They are so curious.  And full of life, and energy.  At times, they are seemingly invincible.

They soak up knowledge and skills, thoughts, dreams, plans, and hopes to someday change the world.  I’m willing to bet you were like that as a kid.  I think I was.  I believe it is universal.  And logically, I must deduce that my father was like that to.

All of our fathers were born like that.

Have your beliefs about your father changed over time?  Mine have.  My daughter’s beliefs have changed about me.  I’m not nearly as big a jerk as I was when she was in 8^th grade.  How I’ve changed!  I’ve grown up so much these last few years.

I think beliefs about dads can change.  Let’s say for example that we could gently bring our fathers back from time, when they were healthy, and when they were fulfilled that role of dad.  We could line them up and without them knowing it, rate them from poor to excellent. 

Where would your dad be in the line?  How well did he live up to your fantasy?  Was he a Ward Cleaver, or a Father Knows Best kind of dad, someone more like the character in “Oliver” known as Fagin -  A conniving career criminal that takes in homeless children and trains them to pick pockets for him.

One can philosophize about how we ended up in the family we did with the parents we had.  I used to resent it.  After all, my dad was pretty grumpy, seemed pretty miserable with his life.  Is your memory one filled with happy images. Maybe you were one of those that couldn’t wait to move out of the house to get away from him. 

My siblings tell stories of a strong man that parachuted into Normandy and saw the war’s end.

He came home to work and raised a family. He loved his kids deeply.  He had a passion for music.  He lived his earlier years with gusto, playing piano, trumpet and even singing in the choir at St. John’s Cathedral in downtown Cleveland. 

 Despite his passion for music, his sense of responsibility was greater. 

He was a police reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, not one of the beats where you witnessed lots of life affirming beauty day after day.  On weekends, when he wasn’t gardening, he played tennis, or racquet ball with passion. 

    

And speaking of passion, he with his young bride, named Marie, and a devout Catholic, had seven kids to feed by the time he was 30 years of age.  My mom told me that the first ten years of their marriage was one continuous honeymoon.  

I was the baby of those seven kids.  I had a few good years with my dad early on but without going into detail, things went south for him when I was in grade school. 

 He battled with demons of depression, alcoholism and consequences of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day.  His health declined and was in and out of the hospital a lot for the last couple of years.  Maybe so it would be easy to remember, he died on ground hog’s day, never to see his shadow again.  He was 47.  I was 16.  My mother and my siblings breathed a sigh of relief that his misery was over, and we could get on with our lives.

Twenty years later, we decided to have a memorial service for him.  It took twenty years for all of my siblings and my mom to heal, to forget, and to forgive.  During that time, three brothers became sober.  We all got counseling.  We had grown enough, that upon looking back, we could see, and appreciate a different father. 

Despite not being very close to my dad, I choose to think of him in this light.  He, like all of us, came into the world full of vim and vigor, and strived to reach his potential: creative, physical, and emotional.  Along the way, he took his share of hits.  Maybe the horrors of war haunted him, for he never spoke of it.

Maybe his overriding sense of responsibility to his family left little room to explore his passion for writing and musical.  Maybe the lack of resources deprived him of treatment for his emotional ills and addictive personality. 

I am convinced I could not do any better if I had been in his shoes.

This father’s day, I’m thankful to him. I’ve gotten more gentle in my criticism.  He provided good European DNA, perfect for manual labor and endurance sports. He made lots of good choices, like marrying my mom.  He provided for his family.  I’m a lot like him I think.  I love to garden, shoot pool, and play racquet ball.  I even like writing. Maybe someday I’ll learn to sing and play an instrument.  In reality, he was just what I needed to launch me into the life I have. 

Another way of thinking about dads

As father day approaches, several things come to mind.  Obviously, we all have dads.  It is a universal experience of sort, yet one profoundly personal. My goal is to share a little bit of my story in hopes that it resonates with you and I hope I get the chance to hear some of your story.

Most of you know I have a daughter, and now I have a grandson. It is wondrous to watch the, isn’t it.  They are so curious.  And full of life, and energy.  At times, they are seemingly invincible. They soak up knowledge and skills, thoughts, dreams, plans, and hopes to someday change the world.  I’m willing to bet you were like that as a kid.  I think I was.  I believe it is universal.  And logically, I must deduce that my father was like that to. All of our fathers were born like that.

Have your beliefs about your father changed over time?  Mine have.  My daughter’s beliefs have changed about me.  I’m not nearly as big a jerk as I was when she was in 8^th grade.  How I’ve changed!  I’ve grown up so much these last few years.

I think beliefs about dads can change.  Let’s say for example that we could gently bring our fathers back from time, when they were healthy, and when they were fulfilled that role of dad.  We could line them up and without them knowing it, rate them from poor to excellent.  Where would your dad be in the line?  How well did he live up to your fantasy?  Was he a Ward Cleaver, or a Father Knows Best kind of dad, someone more like the character in “Oliver” know as Fagin -  A conniving career criminal that takes in homeless children and trains them to pick pockets for him.

One can philosophize about how we ended up in the family we did with the parents we had.  I used to resent it.  After all, my dad was pretty grumpy, seemed pretty miserable with his life.  Is your memory one filled with happy images. Maybe you were one of those that couldn’t wait to move out of the house to get away from him. 

My siblings tell stories of a man that loved his children, played with them, encouraged them, and disciplined them.  We lived his earlier years with gusto, playing piano, trumpet and even singing in the choir at St. John’s Cathedral in downtown Cleveland.  He parachuted into Normandy and saw the war’s end.  He came home to work and raise a family.  Despite his passion for music, his sense of responsibility was greater.  He was a police reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, not one of the beats where you witnessed lots of life affirming beauty day after day.  On weekends, when he wasn’t gardening, he played tennis, or racquet ball with passion.  And speaking of passion, he with his young bride, named Marie, had seven kids to feed by the time he was 30 years of age.  My mom told me that the first ten years of their marriage was one continuous honeymoon. 

I was the baby of those seven kids.  I had a few good years with my dad early on but without going into detail, things went south for him when I was in grade school.  He battled with demons of depression, alcoholism and consequences of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day.  His health declined and was in and out of the hospital a lot for the last couple of years.  Maybe so it would be easy to remember, he died on ground hog’s day.  He was 47.  I was 16.  My mother and my siblings breathed a sigh of relief that his misery was over, and we could get on with our lives.

Twenty years later, we decided to have a memorial service for him.  It took twenty years for all of my siblings and my mom to heal, to forget, and to forgive.  During that time, three brothers became sober.  All of us had counseling.  We had grown enough, that upon looking back, we could see, and appreciate a different father. 

Despite not being very close to my dad, I choose to think of him in this light.  He, like all of us, came into the world full of vim and vinegar, and strived to reach his potential: creative, physical, and emotional.  Along the way, he took his share of hits.  Maybe the horrors of war haunted him, for he never spoke of it.  Maybe his overriding sense of responsibility to his family left little room to explore his own musical or literary talents.  Maybe the lack of resources deprived him of treatment for his emotional ills and addictive personality.  I am convinced I could not do any better if I were in his shoes.

This father’s day, I’m thankful to him. I’ve gotten more gentle in my criticism.  He made lots of good choices, like marrying my mom.  Like him, I love to garden, shoot pool, and play racquet ball.  I like writing. Maybe someday I’ll learn to sing and play an instrument.  In the grand scheme he was a pretty good guy. 

And for the things he may done that at the time seemed less than loving, I’ll get over it.

In Honor of Dads

As father day approaches, several things come to mind.  While obvious, we all have dads.  Many of the men in this room are dads.  Convinced that telling a story helps others to examine the parallels in their life, I will share something of my story. 

One assumption.  At some point, even to a small degree, we have thoughts, or emotions that our dads let us down.  Or that we let down our children.  I do believe that for the most part, everyone is doing the best they can with what they have.  Personally, I didn’t have much of a connection with my dad.  Thank god my mom was there.  It took me a while to understand how I came to accept and appreciate him as a man doing his best, and in some ways sacrificing much to help his family

While we are still waiting for some type of men’s movement to declare it, let it be known that men are  incredible.  Throughout history, we see men who develop superior skills and thinking that make the world what it is today.  But it is strange because a large number of men I talk with do not speak highly of their fathers.  Most admit their fathers simply did the best they could.  But some dads were overly harsh, unemotional, discouraging.  There are some gems out there for sure, but why do so many men my age and older seem so disconnected with their dads?

One friend of mine blames it partially on industrialization, where men were taken off the farm, worked in factories under cruel conditions, exhausting not only the body, but also their heart.  Almost all of their time was consumed with earning a wage to support the family and the mother was the physical as well as the emotional care giver.

Dads today have more time to Love the kids, hug them, play, encourage, cajole, console, provide, protect, and train.  While fathers of days gone by might have wanted the luxury we dads have today, , it would be even more difficult working seven days a week, 12 to fourteen hours a day. 

My grandfather was the son of a stone mason that came over on a ship in the late 1800s and settled in Akron, OH.  Ben Tidyman, my grandfather saw himself working with words, and betting on horses rather than a chisel and stone.  He had two sons, Bob Tidyman (my dad) and Ernest Tidyman. Ernest, something of a book worm avoided participating in WWII with very bad vision.  He went on to have multiple wives, kids from at least two different wives, and wrote books that were turned in to movies about a black detective in New York named “Shaft”.  When he wasn’t writing for the New York Times, he was working on a screen play of two, for some obscure movies, like “High Plains Drifter” and won something called an academy award for his screenplay for “The French Connection”.  I bring this up for two reasons.  My father had similar genes which might have enabled him to experience similar fame and fortune.  Instead, he married for life, and supported seven kids.  On the other hand, I also have heard that my cousins thought so little of their father Ernest; they changed their last names to that of their mother’s maiden name. 

Like so many others, my dad joined the Army right out of high school.  I’m not even sure he finished high school actually.  My dad was something of a renaissance man.  He played piano and was a good enough trumpet player to get in the army band, and for two years, played music.  He then joined the paratroopers, and a couple years later was parachuting down into Normandy.  He returned to the states physically unharmed and barely escaping a dishonorable discharge for stealing a French jeep, and breaking a stained glass window of a church with an empty wine bottle thrown from said jeep. 

He returned to the states already a husband to a sweet 4’11” nursing student named Marie, who also blessed him in his absence with a beautiful son, Bob Jr.  Bob Sr. did what many did upon returning.  He went to work to support his family.  He followed in his father’s footsteps as a writer for the Cleveland Plain Dealer on the police beat.  This was probably, at least at first, pretty exciting but not the type of writing where one could explore their creative side.  How many different ways can you say, “the victim was apparently shot at close range execution style” or “upon flicking the light switch, the cockroaches scattered, turning the walls from black to white.”.  It seems that he left one war in Germany to witness a different type of war on the streets of Cleveland. 

In his prime, I’m told my father was a passionate man.  My mom said he couldn’t hardly walk by her without stealing a kiss.  She said the first ten years of marriage was one long honeymoon. He loved music, sometimes lending his rich baritone voice for the Cleveland Cathedral downtown. In addition to singing, he played piano and trumpet.  He loved racquet sports.  In the winter, he would load up the kids and head to the WMCA and while we swam, he played handball or racquetball.   In the summer, he played tennis.  While not known for his finesse, he was known for hitting hard and pity the man who somehow got in the way of one of his killer slam shots.

Being the baby of seven kids, I didn’t experience my dad the way the older kids did.  The older ones experienced him at his best.  I know this because twenty years after he died, we decided to have the memorial service he never got.  My mother’s health was failing and it was a ‘now or never’ situation.  The older kids spoke of his deep love, his sense of humor, his playfulness and his being a strict disciplinarian.  If there is one thing I learned from watching the older kids, it was don’t get in trouble with the law. 

Raised in a family with little love and affection, he did his best to learn to love his wife and children.  His self esteem suffered from a childhood short on love and affection, and he questioned his abilities at work, where he was surrounded by college graduates at the Plain Dealer.  Maybe he was jealous of his brothers fame and fortune.  Maybe memories of the war haunted him. Maybe the responsibility of so many mouths to feed finally got to him, or the undiagnosed and untreated depression, or all of the above combined with the damage done by alcohol and tobacco.   My father’s demons ultimately took their toll.  From the time I can remember, he was on and off the wagon and one to generally avoid unless I got an all clear signal from my mom or a sibling.  At age 42, pneumonia weakened his heart.  At 47, consistent with his sense of humor, he died on Ground Hog’s day, unlikely to see his shadow. 

On this Father’s Day, I want to honor his hard work, his sense of humor, his love and dedication to a huge undertaking.  His influence endures.  Two of his children are professional musicians.  Two others make their living writing.  Most of us love to garden as he did.  Sports of one kind or another come to us somewhat naturally.   Thanks to the resources available to us today, the alcoholic siblings managed to  escaped near death or disaster and are now vibrant, creative and loving members of their community.

This father’s day, I hope that we can come to appreciate our fathers knowing that they did the best they could do.