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.
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