"He had an edge on education;
Wisdom was his tool.
He could tell three days before it snowed
And you can't learn that in school."
The Statler Brothers, Dad
Someone asked me recently how I choose topics for blog posts. Well, some seem to present themselves almost written (not ready to call this inspiration.) Others, are prompted by what is going on in the world around me. Yet others arise from snippets of conversation or something that I hear. As best I can determine, today's meanderings and musings have arisen because the above lyrics have been singing themselves to me since a conversation last week with my friend, Rick. Do not now even know the context in which they arose. Or, maybe it was hearing again Malcolm Gladwell (Outliers) reflecting on the confluence of circumstances that make for "success", however defined. (If interested, see the earlier post Whose Shoulders do you Stand On?)
Trained as a therapist as well as academic historian, I know something of the allure and pitfalls of 'retrospective enhancement' as well as 'retrospective distortions'. . .flattery or glossing over illustrate the former; for the latter, flattery can fit here as well, along with scapegoating. Still, indulging neither enhancement nor distortion, there are some males who are (or were) 'jerks' and even less flattering labels, who do and have done immeasurable damage to their children's bodies, spirits and psyches. Our father, though not without his limitations, gratefully was not one of those ogres.
John McDermott, one of the Irish Tenors, sang in The Old Man
(ostensibly about his father): "He was more than just a father; a teacher, my best friend . . ." My brothers and I were in the 'right' place at the 'right' time with the 'right' parents who because of the formative influences they had experienced encouraged us in many ways to grow. We acknowledge that we were fortunate or lucky, or both. Personal ability, intelligence and "smarts" are but part of the story.
Essentially abandoned by his biological mother while he was still an infant, dad was fortunate that his own father recognized that he alone could not care for his sickly child. Consequently, he enlisted the aid of a woman who comes close to being a 'Saint'...my Grandma Ida ...and she more than any other cared for dad through his early years and provided the stability and nurture he needed.
Left: Grand-ma Ida Smith early 1950's; Above: Dad in Burlington, NC around 1920
By adolescence, dad had returned to live with his father in another state. Then the man he had known as 'Daddy Bob' had a health crisis and was unable to return to work in the cotton mill. Dad returned to North Carolina and took Daddy Bob's place in the mill, thereby providing some degree of financial underpinning for his foster mother. Among other consequences of that decision, though, dad's formal schooling ended at the tenth grade, at a time when completing the eleventh grade meant graduation.
He and mom were married in 1933 as the Great Depression made life difficult for most blue collar workers. Dad in time was able again to find work in the local cotton mill and remained there until after the births of their first two sons. Do you know the definition of a 'lint head'? It was a prejudicial term of derision tossed at cotton mill workers by those who considered themselves 'too good' or 'too smart' to do the menial, manual labor. Dad taught us that any honest work is honorable and not to be despised nor 'looked down upon'. At the risk of being considered curmudgeonly or dinosaur-ly, I have observed that his perspective is not universally shared today, especially by those 'just starting out'.
World War II brought some financial buoyancy to the lives of 'average Americans'. Dad failed the physical examination for military service but his life-long 'hustle' (in a good sense) to supplement their income led to a new job in a new town around 1942. He began driving a dry-cleaning route truck and in his 'down time' around the plant took the initiative to do what some might have considered 'menial tasks'. The owner asked, "Do you know what you have done?" When dad said no, Mr. Tunstall said, "You have just earned a $5 a week raise." That was a LOT of money at the time.
Dry cleaning truck in background. For several
years, this was our 'family car'.
When I began working in the small-town 'supermarket' in the early 1950's, he admonished me to stay busy. If there were few customers in the store, dust the shelves or sweep the floor. Already as a boy, I had spent many hours with him on his truck. We had 'contests' to determine who could deliver the most bundles. Like Tom Sawyer enlisting helpers to whitewash the fence, dad allowed me to 'win'. For this, I earned a supplement to my weekly base pay of $2, (thought generous at the time) plus all the soft drinks and candy bars he deemed acceptable for my health. Being trusted with significant sums of money for making change when collecting accounts on 'pay day' in the mill town gave my youthful self-confidence a huge boost.
In time, dad and his brother-in-law bought that dry cleaning plant and were partners until 1954 when at 42 (old then), he began working with Metropolitan Life Insurance Company ("Mother Met" he called it because of a new level of financial security this brought.) Another family move ensued, bringing for me the opportunity to participate in high school athletics and to learn who my #1 fan was. Before schools had Activity Buses for team transportation, dad often was one of the car pool drivers carrying my teammates and me to our away games.
As our high school graduations loomed, my brothers and I frequently heard, not "If you go to college . . ." but "When you go to college. . . ". I probably didnot know that I had an option until after the fact. It was part of their cultural ethos , something they thought would be important to and for their sons. "We want you to have opportunities we didn't" was frequently cited. Then there was the confluence of his work ethic and emphasis on formal education. He sadly told me that going to college in the Fall meant that I would not be able to play American Legion Baseball. Thus ended my 'career'.
Fifteen or so years as a college professor strengthened my conviction that a college degree per se does not mean that one is somehow more intelligent, more blessed, 'more better', more special than anyone else. Maybe there is something to the aphorism that claims 'we often do for our children what we wish had been done for us when we were their ages'.
My parents around 1980
In his later years, the once vital, strong man that I had known became increasingly infirm. Chronic arthritis and coronary disease rendered him a shadow of his former self. While his physical strength declined, his capacity for expressing love and affection did not diminish. Sometime while I was in college, the 'manly' handshake upon reunion was replaced with the outright bearhug. Their eight grand-children loved their grand-parents and found each of them in their own way sources of wisdom, warmth, and welcome. They were called 'Pa' and 'Ma' because , as family lore has it, my daughter was unable to say 'Grandpa' and 'Grandma'.
Two nights before his unexpected death, my parents telephoned 'just to chat'. The last words dad ever spoke to me were "I love you". The Statlers were right : "Wisdom was his tool."
Satchel
❤️
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