#312 Musings Beyond the Bunker (Wednesday March 30)
Good morning,
Today is my father’s birthday. He would be 102 years old today. Given how spry, sarcastic, and perspicacious he was when pushing 90, I’m sure he would be fully engaged in the issues of the day now.
As I’ve noted earlier, my father did not share a great deal of his “inner workings.” This was consistent with the times in which he lived but also his belief that people should be judged by their actions and not by what they claim to believe. I know this isn’t terribly popular in today’s time in which we are far more open about what we feel, how we may be offended, and a seeming preoccupation with sharing. We probably could do with a tad less soul-baring and braggadocio on Facebook and other social media. We need not always be “open books” or, worse, curated avatars of what we really are all about, for purposes of public consumption.
Don’t get me wrong; we are better for living in a world where we can share our aspirations, anxieties, and concerns more openly. But sometimes we might take a page from Bill’s playbook and not overly obsess with a feeling here or there and, instead, measure people less on how they might offend us and more on the collective record of their actions. And perhaps we might acknowledge that, as much as the world may profess to care, in the end few people other than those closest to us spend much time concerned with how we feel.
I suspect we are all the sum of our experiences. My father grew up during the depression, had very few possessions, and came from a home with little love. My grandfather was what euphemistically might be referred to as a “ladies’ man” or a “rover” in the 1930s. This childhood, coupled with a strong desire to emerge from his environment, propelled him to a career as a pediatrician. It also informed the type of parent he strove to be. He said there are two ways to go after the example set by his father—either to follow in his footsteps or affirmatively decide to be a different type of father—a different type of person. Thankfully, he chose the latter and I am the better for it.
My father taught me a level of stoicism about the vicissitudes of life. He never complained about “taking call” over the weekend or having a baseball game interrupted by a mother’s need to bring her child by the hospital late at night. He approached problems methodically, without much commentary. He taught me bravery in many ways, but none as much as when he explained to me that my sister was going to die from her cancer at age 37, dedicating himself to her care for the remaining time he had left. Throughout, he displayed a cheery disposition, telling jokes, offering encouragement and seeing to her needs until the end.
HAVE FUN
Some people have made fun of my sign-off “Have fun,” at the end of a phone call or when bidding someone farewell. Sometimes it may seem incongruous or out of place. What an absurd thing to say—“have fun.” But if you think about it, it makes sense—the thing that people often need to be reminded to do is to just go out and try to have fun. I got this from Bill. He always said that people took themselves too seriously, focused too much on their troubles and missed out on all the fun things life had to offer. He would always end a conversation with, “Have fun.” Sometimes, in true “Bill fashion,” it would be followed by “…but not too much fun…”
WORK HARD
Another thing Bill conveyed was a sense of responsibility and the need to do the best at everything one sets out to do. He never did anything part-way. Hard work was not an onus to him; it was a way of life, a source of fulfillment, and joyful in itself. He would walk the halls of the hospital on a Saturday morning whistling Sinatra tunes with a spring in his step. It was serious work, to be engaged with an open heart and a positive disposition.
The last time I saw my father was when he was 91 and failing. I was with Brad and I turned to my father and asked if there was any advice he had for Brad. From this fatigued and failing body emerged the man I struggle to emulate every day. “Have fun,” he commanded. He paused, almost for effect, and then ended with another favorite admonition, “Work hard.”
Have a good day,
Glenn
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