It’s a quiet morning at our house. It’s still an unreasonable time for any civilized person to be awake. I always blame my early rising habit on the fact I had a morning newspaper route in the mid-sixties delivering the Washington Post in suburban Virginia.
It was a job I took very seriously. I would get paid $1 a month for every customer I delivered a paper to each morning. I had grown my route to 100 customers and the $100 a month I was earning basically made me the Bill Gates of my neighborhood.
For you youngsters, an allowable expression since I am an “oldster” and am reminded so every time I try to read the label on anything that aging is taking place, $100 was a lot of money back then. I could buy a McDonalds’ hamburger for 15 cents and I only had to walk a half a mile to get there.
Back then walking was a mode of transportation for a lot of kids. It wasn’t just what you do when you get off of your scooter, skateboard or, God forbid, have to get out of the car because the Starbucks you were being driven to is without a drive through window.
The walking from your car does have one benefit, it allows you time to calculate whether or not there is enough money on your Starbucks card to include a bacon gouda sandwich with the venti, latte, Frappuccino, with butterscotch, whipped on a sesame seed bun that you plan to order. (Oh wait, there’s automatic replenishment on your card that you convinced your folks was a requirement less you have to call child protective services, so you’re good!)
Since it was an area just outside of Washington D.C., there were several government officials, including a few congressmen and senators. What that meant was that it was very important to get them their newspapers before they woke up because, in those barbaric days before smart phones, the internet or Facebook, this was how news was delivered. For you millennials, news was different then. News mostly dealt with what was going on with world events, the economy, or sports box scores.
We were deprived back then of all the important things we have at our fingertips now like what Chloe had for breakfast, who Taylor Swift was upset with, or what new apps were available to allow us to sharpen our narcissistic ability to take selfies. Although, I do believe there is some value gained by debating on social media whether or not a zoo official made a mistake by choosing to save the life of a child at the sacrifice of a gorilla. Really, how can there be any question??? Have we become that stupid or am I just getting that old? I think it’s more of the former than the later, but hey, who am I. I am just an old goofball who values human life over all other, still enjoys fixing something around the house and couldn’t order something from Starbucks more exotic than an iced, venti, green tea unless it was written down or texted to me.
By the way, the above rant is not complaining. It’s just how we old guys think. It is how our dads thought about the life we were living when we were younger. I am sure Adam thought Cain had it too easy because he didn’t have Eve to get him to do things he shouldn’t be doing. It goes way back.
It’s how you millennials will think when your kids only have to press their temples with their fingers and close their eyes and the news will instantly be in their brain or when they have an application on their molecular regenerating device that allows them to instantly look like their favorite reality star. The dynamics however, will not change all that much generation to generation.
Now when I got up way too early my intention was not to try to get myself nominated for grumpy dad of the year. I felt compelled to write.
I had intended to sit down and write about fatherhood and what a blessing it is and has been. I believe we as fathers, no matter what generation, always want our kids to have things better than we did. For some reason, that seems to be our ultimate measure of how we determine our success as dads.
The human condition and our own frailties sometimes get us sidetracked. Despite my grumpiness, I have an optimistic view of fatherhood in its current state. Yes, we tend to do too much, but I also see fathers doing the things that really matter. I see men still playing catch with their kids, reading to them and even putting their cell phones down long enough to talk. I see men teaching their kids that life is about more than cell phones, cars, downloads and video games. I see men taking the time to introduce their kids to God’s greater purpose for their lives.
That encourages me. It should encourage us all. I know I was not a perfect father. Most of the mistakes I made were in the later years of my kids’ lives. All of the mistakes I made were out of a desire that they have a life better than mine. I realize now that my ability to translate what that meant was sometimes different then what they really wanted. In most cases that was the part of the growing up process and them becoming adults.
There was only one perfect dad and he sacrificed his son to bring us eternal peace. (When your kids go through the teenage years you realize maybe He was onto something there.)
I am proud of all of my kids for many reasons and in different ways but I am most proud of the parents that they have become and continue to be. I love them all very much! I view the seventeen grandkids and two great grandkids they have produced as my retirement joy fund! They each, in their own ways, are special and unique and I couldn’t possibly find the words that adequately express how much they mean to me. If I could bottle that joy and sell it I would be wealthy. Although, I think I will just hang onto that joy and be rich!
I was blessed to have a wonderful dad. The smartest and bravest man I’ve known. Nearly self-raised. A Navy fighter pilot and veteran of Korea and Vietnam. My hero in every sense. A gifted athlete who boxed and played football in college before he left to fly in the Navy.
There were many times I got to observe what being a father was by just being around him. The one story I’d like to share on this Father’s Day has to do with my paper route.
The routine back then was that you had to collect the monthly cost from your customers in person. If you didn’t collect the $2.75 from each client, you had to pay your cost of $1.75 directly to the paper so you lost money. Even Gavin Newsom would understand those economics don’t work. Sorry, I got carried away. Gavin has zero understanding of anything.
It was a cold, rainy night in October when I was getting set to head out on my Stingray bike and do my collections. My dad was pulling in our long driveway as I was heading out. He stopped the car and asked if I wanted him to drive me since it was raining. Even after a long day’s work, he was there for me.
I put my bike away and jumped in the car. He went into the house to change out of his uniform. When he returned to the car he had a couple of cigars and a thermos of “hot cocoa”. It was our code word for his bourbon.
The collections were uneventful and between houses we talked about baseball and school. I was a Yankees’ fan so there was plenty to talk about in the mid-sixties.
We were nearly done with only three houses to go. I made my way up a long driveway with a massive colonial home’s front porch my destination. (This was the “rich” part of town.)
I rang the doorbell and the porch light soon came on. An older, portly gentlemen in a bathrobe answered the door. I recognized him. He was a former Congressman. (I knew this because his daughter was in one of my classes.)
He loudly demanded to know why I was “bothering” him. I held out my collections book, which was a series of pages. There was one page for each customer and a perforated receipt for each month on each page. “I was there to collect”, I explained. “I paid you already!” he exclaimed. “Sir, if you had paid me, I would have given you this receipt”, I proclaimed respectfully. “Let me see that!” he shouted as he grabbed my book, tore off the receipt and headed into the house.
I few minutes later he returned, smelling of fresh “hot cocoa” and declared “See, I paid you. Here is my receipt.” With that he slammed the door.
Stunned I walked slowly back to the car. Tears we’re running down my face so I took my time. When I opened the car door there was my dad greeting me with a puff of smoke and a big grin. “Almost done”, he proclaimed. He saw my face.
After I explained to him what happened, he he smiled and said: “Wait here, I am going to have a chat with YOUR friend”.
After a brief conversation, my dad returned. “Your friend wants to talk to you”, my dad said. Slowly I walked up the long drive. My friend handed me $50 and said, “I’m sorry. Here’s a year in advance and keep the change.”
I walked back to the car with a spring in my step. As I climbed into the front seat, I asked my dad: “What did you say to him?” My dad, with a twinkle in his eye and a sly wink simply proclaimed: “I just told him, I’m your dad.”
That was enough that night and every day thereafter. I learned a lot about being a dad that night.
“Can I have some of you hot cocoa, dad?” “Sure, why not. Don’t tell your mom”.
I didn’t.