Happy Birthday, Daddy: Thoughts on Fatherhood.

Dennis waxed poetic, so I thought I would indulge. These are my thoughts on someone who for me will always be larger than life.

Few of my friends' dads were both as feared and loved as ours--kind of like a drill sergeant. (They called him "Clint," after the Dirty Harry movies--and not just for the once - obvious physical resemblance.) None of the kids in the neighborhood liked to annoy him, but sometimes they would risk it to get his positive feedback.

I think they knew he took a genuine interest in them. He was no Mister Rogers, of course, not someone kids would flock to. He was just there, working in the yard or making something, or whatever, but available and always ready with encyclopedic knowledge on every subject any kid could come up with:

"What was it like when you were gassed in the Army and your mask didn't work?"
"Aw, it was somethin,' I tell you what . . . [eleven minutes later] now, the Germans first used chlorine gas during World War I, but you could smell it. But mustard gas is odorless...."

"What was it like jumping out of airplanes in the Army?"
"Aw, it was somethin'. . . [nine minutes later] now you see, the Bernouli Effect is what happens when air is forced around a curved object. And the wing of a plane is flat on the bottom but its curved on the top. Look at this radio-controlled model I just made out of balsa wood. See that curve? Now when the air is forced around that curve, it speeds up on the top side of the wing--but the air on the bottom doesn't speed up--and the difference creates lift... Now your balsa is one of your lightest woods..."

"What was it like riding a bull?"
"Aw, it was somethin' else, I tell you what . . . . [thirteen minutes later] now, Braimers' were never much for beef. But they've been bred to other breeds to help them resist disease. The Santa Gertrudis, for example, is three-eighths Braimer' and five-eighths shorthorn. And the Brangus is three-fourths Braimer' and one-fourth Angus. Then there's the Charbray, which is three-eighths Braimer' and five-eighths Charolais, if I remember correctly...."

But he saved the best lessons for his own children . . .

"Well, sound travels at a rate of 1100 feet per second. And there are 5,286 feet in a mile. Now light travels amazingly faster--do you remember the speed of light?"
"Ummm....one buhzillion miles an hour?"
Then he slaps his forehead and grimaces, nodding side to side slightly. "Well, now there's no such thing as 'buhzillion.' Light travels at a rate of a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second--or 700 million miles an hour. Now, that's fast, huh?"
"Maybe. But Han Solo has warp speed. That's way faster."
"Hun Who?"

"Now, I don't know a thing about music, junior. But middle C is the name musicians give to a sound with a wave amplitude that measures 256 Hertz. And the frequency doubles with each octave. So the next C up is 512 Hertz, and the one below middle C is half the frequency of middle C, or 128 Hertz. Now, if you could draw the wave pattern of the different Cs at the different frequencies or Hertz, the distance, you see, between the sign and the cosign would always operate on a ratio of 2:1, with the number of Hertz at the peak of the wave being...."
"Daddy, my rubber ducky makes waves when I throw him in the water. Watch."

"Come here, son. Stand right here. Listen to this song on the reel-to-reel."
"Okay."
"There. You hear that? That's the magic of stereophonic sound. The analog tape is magnetized in such a way that the signals for some instruments go to the left speaker, and some go to the right. The tape is polarized, see. Acoustics is just so interesting. Isn't it incredible?"
"Yes. Now can I go ride my bigwheel?"

"Well, now you've got to understand the difference between volts and watts. One measures current, the other is a unit of work. And it takes 1,000 watts to make a kilowatt. And a kilowatt hour, then, you see.... Now, when the power leaves the generating plant, they raise the voltage up thousands of times so that it can travel more efficiently. But then it has to be reduced at the transformer before it comes into the house. Can you imagine what would happen if your house ran on 50,000 volts?"
"Ummm. It would be like an atom bomb and blow up the whole state of Texas, maybe?"
"Well, no. It wouldn't be like an atom bomb. Now, son, stop pedaling the tricycle for a second. Listen. An atom bomb is not electrical. I mean, it works off an electrical switch, of course. But the bomb itself is based on nuclear fission. Think of it this way: you remember last week, we were talking about the nucleus of an atom, right? Remember, how there are electrons and protons and they float around the center? And some are positively charged, and some are negatively charged? Like the parts of the mobile above your crib?"
"Yeah, all the moving parts of the mobile, Daddy. I remember. I like my mobile."
"Right. Well, an atom bomb is like that."
"Daddy, if my crib blows up like an atom bomb, can I sleep with you and Mama?"

All kidding aside, never was a father's brain more tightly packed with sophisticated information about the way the world works--and never was a father any better at sharing it with his kids. I always liked his approach: share a little more than they are ready to absorb, and on a level a little higher than they are ready to hear. I'm sure I missed plenty, but I appreciated the fact that I was expected to understand, and spoken to as though I were just another grown-up.

On this subject, I think I learned more from him than I did in any school on the subjects of physics, history, politics, capitalism, education, media literacy (a term he'd never use!) and life in general. More importantly, the teaching of our parents prepared us to interpret the divergent worldviews we would encounter in college. Judging by the struggles of almost all of my peers at HBU--when faced with so-called 'higher criticism' of the Biblical text, for example, I think it was the confident and intelligent, thoughtful faith of my parents that made the difference.

But more important than all of that is the way he has lived his life. His integrity is unimpeachable. I don't think anything ever mattered more in our home than honesty. Complete honesty. And I recommend the same--it has an impact on so many other areas. (Teenagers, for example, will rebel. But teens who perceive their parents as dishonest or hypocrites will rebel in spades. No age group is more sensitive to a snowjob, and none more likely to sniff it out.)

But my parents are honest. And when hard (really hard) questions were raised in later years, whether they concerned society, or our local church, or whatever, it was my knowledge of my parents' integrity that kept me going, not their answers. Nineteen-year-old know-it-alls can dismiss pat answers. But when you have examined your parents and are certain of their complete trustworthiness--I'm talking about absolute, total honesty, not just the "mostly honest" of the guy down the street--then nothing they say can be dismissed as a 'pat' answer. If I brought them a question, I knew the answer was the truth, just as if Jesus had walked in and posed the question Himself. I honestly do not know another man about whom I can say that.

Finally, I admire my Dad for a number of reasons: He never cared about material things. He keeps the financial house in order. He's patient. He never oversleeps. Both he and my mom are never, ever late for anything. He has literally never spoken a cuss word in my hearing (nor I in his!). He reads the paper cover-to-cover every day, and reads the Bible through every year (and did both before retiring). He never stops reading books. He always had time for us. He could fix anything and make anything (including a working flint-lock rifle, a set of flint-lock pistols--or whatever they're called--and a huge Bowie knife. Boys love that stuff). He is shrewd but never cynical. He believes in swift justice and hanging murderers and pedofiles. But he knows God can change lives. He does his own taxes. He never drinks and never missed it. He remembers his whole life--and can repeat it in a thousand great stories, each of them seasoned with bits of historical and scientific trivia.

And he never backed down from a fight.

Following the oft-repeated 'Clint' reference, I spent years scanning movies for something more apt. My friend Scott compared him to Gary Cooper's iconoclastic character in The Fountainhead film. (Scott also said that given Daddy's Louisiana accent, listening to him talk was like listening to a very intellectual Foghorn Leghorn.)

Then when I saw Mel Gibson's The Patriot, I thought there is a movie that captures my dad. Here was an articulate, thoughtful man, willing to disagree with the leaders of the community. He loves his family and wants to protect them. But when the English capture his eldest son and take him away to be hanged, Dad grabs three rifles and sets up an ambush. He rescues his son by singledhandedly killing a dozen or more soldiers, in the end reduced to hacking at them with a tomahawk, finally so overcome with passion he just keeps hacking on the last one until his son stops him. When Dad looks up, he is covered in blood.

As he would say, "it's a safe bet" my dad's never gone that far. But there were threats leveled against me as a kid. Most were empty, perhaps. But when they weren't I can't tell you how great it felt to know I had a dad that would take on all comers. In this world of emasculated, passive men, where feminism and liberalism have left most too conflicted to be gentlemen and too selfish to defend their family against anything but physical harm, it is great to know those who coudn't care less about "that silly feminist hogwash."

He was absolutely undaunted for example, by the man who told me and Dennis (ages 6 and 4) that he was going to break both our legs. This man chose me for his pet scapegoat. If money was missing from a piggy bank, then that 8-year-old delinquent must have snuck in during the night and stolen it. (Yes, he literally accused me.) If something was broken, it must have been little Steven the devil-child. This grown man considered it his duty to constantly remind the second-grader next door that he would be spending his whole life behind bars and would never be president or an astronaut or a lawyer or doctor or anything else. Then there was the time he literally picked me up by the hair so he could look me in the eyes and tell me not to throw grass clippings. When it was appropriate, Daddy and the man "had words." I did my best to watch from the bushes. (I'd give anything for a tape of those conversations.) When a confrontation could be avoided, my parents taught me how to handle criticism. They taught me not to internalize it. They taught me that sometimes, it really was not my fault. They kept reminding me, convincing me that I was a good kid. As John Eldredge would say, they taught me that I "had what it takes." I would not trade those lessons for a nicer neighbor, not on your life.

And for a kid and his parents to do battle together against a common enemy, whether it's a neighbor, or math, or an illness or a learning disability, or whatever--what better way could there be to forge a powerful bond as allies, not adversaries? I suspect one of the reasons I so easily internalized so many of my parents' beliefs and values is that these struggles left me absolutely convinced we really were on the same team. Oh, I rebelled--in a thousand overt ways. But there were several lines I would not cross, lines many parents can only dream of. I also worked through my 'rebellious phase' much earlier than most. By high school graduation, I had decided my parents were wiser and better allies than most of my peers. And I think a part of it may have been the way they fought for me and alongside me during so many difficult childhood battles. It's easy to leave long division to the teacher, for example, and tell yourself they'll catch on soon enough, what difference does it make. But it does make a difference.

Still, as a child the constant criticism was hard sometimes, not because it had any basis in reality, but because I seemed to be in trouble all the time. At school, teachers complained about all sorts of things. The principal and I knew each other far too well. She wanted me on Ritalin. I ended up on a special diet. And I meant well, but seemed to always be doing the wrong things. There would be moments of brilliance--one great school project a year, maybe--then months of failures. But what stands out when I look back are not the struggles but the rescues. I will never forget the way I was defended.

My parents expected a lot from us. But sometimes when I explained what happened, Daddy would look at me--and he knew I would not lie to him--and I would see a twinkle in his eye. I never knew what that was. Did he understand? Had he been there, too? Could it be that deep down, even though what I did was bad, he understood why a boy would want to do it? Without ever really telling me, I always knew he understood. Even when he took the belt off. Somehow, I knew that he knew what it was like. (And I believed him when he said, "this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.")

But when I was falsely accused, and falsely punished or unfairly treated in some significant way, it may have hurt. But for most of those occasions all I really remember is being defended. All I remember is my hero. And in a case like that, the pain is worth it because without it, you would have never seen the passion of your defender.

"The Glory of Sons is their fathers." Proverbs 17:6.
--Boy, am I blessed.

Happy 71st! You deserve it.