DAD

What follows is, with some minor edits, a column I wrote for “Across the Miles” which appeared in the Western News, the alumni newsletter at Western Illinois University.  As Mother’s Day is recently behind us and Father’s Day lies ahead, I felt it might be appropriate to share.

Summer Edition—2004

Seize the day! Make a difference! Do something! Help somebody! Every time I speak to a group this theme seems to flow effortlessly from my lips. I’ve always known the reason why, but I haven’t talked about it much until now. It has to do with my dad. He taught me a very valuable lesson that I employ every day of my life. But first, a little background information.         

Simply stated, Dad was my best friend. It was always that way. It just sort of happened. There’s a word “simpatico” which means the special relationship that exists between people when words need not be spoken, yet there is a level of peace and compassion that goes beyond mere words. We shared that feeling. My dad was always Mr. Personality—he laughed, he told stories, he entertained my friends. He was a man of the people and fun to be around. Few people knew that beneath that friendly exterior was a man dire, and I mean dire, financial straits. My earliest memories include our family’s acute, persistent money problems. Every month was a financial nightmare at the Taylor household. The mortgage, four sons, school clothes, car payments, taxes, bills, bills, bills-there was NEVER enough money, and our situation grew more desperate each year.                            

My dad was not a lazy or unskilled man, just unlucky. He was an optometrist who professionally just couldn’t make the transition from rural Galena to upscale, suburban Hinsdale. For the Taylors there were no vacations, no new cars, no new clothes, and leftovers night after night plus the constant threatening calls from bill collectors. This was the 1950s, so there was no credit card maneuvering in play here. My dad borrowed from everyone—banks, savings and loans, and finally relatives. He even borrowed money from his high school and college friends–$100 here, $200 there, just to keep us going. I knew these people. I spent time in their homes, played with their children. I will always remember who they were and what they did for us during our financial odyssey. Despite their help, it was not enough.

I came home from junior high one day to find neighbors gathered in our front yard. It was not for a picnic. The local utility company was using a huge backhoe to dig up our front yard so they could disconnect our water main for non-payment. There was both pain and embarrassment on my mom’s face when she asked if I had any money. I went to my bedroom where I kept my life savings from babysitting and mowing lawns ($34.75) safely hidden in a Skippy peanut butter jar. The water bill was $34.35, so Mom threw the jar at the poor workers and screamed at them to leave and “keep the change.”  It was one of the very few times I ever saw Mom lose her composure.  The memory of that event is forever burnt into my psyche.  Things were terrible, but they got worse.   

That same evening Dad came home from work with a U-Haul. The sadness and pain in his eyes were deep and profound as he announced in an almost inaudible whisper, “We have to leave tonight.” We all stood there in silence. We had not seen it coming. Dad went on, “The bank wants us out tomorrow. No more reprieves, no more loans, no more delays, we’re leaving!” We all had tears in our eyes as Mom asked, “Where are we going?” The reply was, “I don’t know” and with that we packed up our meager belongings.

Dad felt like such a failure. It was clear by his every move. His back was bent over, his eyes were red, he wouldn’t look any of us in the eye. He appeared gaunt; his spirit broken by a cascade of economic calamities. This, to a man who was a class leader in high school, all-city basketball player in Chicago, and civic leader as he grew older. 

At 10 p.m. the job was done, and we were prepared to leave. As we started out the back door for the last time the phone rang. The phone rang! Who could possibly be calling? Dad picked up the receiver as the rest of us went outside to wait and wait and wait. It seemed like forever. Finally, Dad came out and quietly announced “I got some money.” We unloaded the U-Haul and never spoke of that night again— never! That was clearly the worst of it, the nadir of our financial nightmare if you will. We still had some bad times, but after that horrible day, things gradually got better for our family.

Dad held down three jobs; Mom, two; and we four boys did our part as well. Gradually Dad paid everyone back. It took 20 years, but he did it. The banks, the savings and loans, our relatives, and finally his friends. In some cases, his friends said they didn’t want to be repaid; they were happy to have helped but Dad insisted.

Near the end of his life (June 1988), Dad and I were having lunch together, which we tried to do every time I got back home. Table 23 at the Cypress Restaurant in Hinsdale was our little piece of paradise. This would be a lunch like no other in my life before or since. At some point, I mustered up my courage and finally asked THE QUESTION. “Dad, why did you pay everyone back?” He certainly didn’t have to. Mom and he never had much of their own since they’d spent their entire adult years paying back all those loans. My question prompted Dad to get a twinkle in his eyes—he was excited. It was as if he’d been waiting a lifetime for someone to ask him that simple question. A big smile came across his face that had known much adversity in its 74 years and he spoke.

“Gord, when you and your brothers were growing up, I could never give you much—no car, no fancy clothes, no money for college, not even any spending money. But I did what I had to do. The measure of a man or woman is not the size of the house they live in, nor the type of car they drive, or even where they buy their clothes. The true value of an individual is what they stand for and how they live. Yes, I could have given up, but I wouldn’t. It was important for me to show you the importance of dignity, self-respect, pride, and integrity. I had to pay everyone back. It was the right thing to do.”

I got up from my chair, walked around to where my dad was sitting, hugged him as hard as I’ve ever hugged anyone in my life and whispered “Thanks Dad.” It was simply all I could say, but I knew how much it meant to my best friend. It was a seminal event in my life.

Dad was gone a month later, but his legacy lives on. He taught me that the most important things in life aren’t really things at all; that while we can’t all be Nobel Prize Laureates or find a cure for cancer, we can all make a difference in this world if we choose to do so. My dad lived by a simple creed which good friends Jim ‘72 ‘73 and Suzi Miner ‘72 ‘73 were kind enough to frame for me. It hangs in my office and reads:

Be sure you don’t miss your opportunities to do the right thing to make a difference, in this, what for most in receipt of this, is the 4^th quarter of our lives.  It will give increased meaning to your life and maybe even put a twinkle in your eye as well.  From a grateful son, Happy Father’s Day, Dad, I love you.