Because he would be mortified by this story, let’s call this modern dad Bill. He’s really a William in personality, but puts others at ease with the more familiar Bill – never Billy.
We met by accident, during a financial transaction. Our immediate impression, my husband’s and mine, was of a successful man of integrity, a courtly throwback to gentlemen of my father’s era, who did business on a handshake and whose word was their bond. This turned out to be the case.
When our deal was done we kept in Christmas card touch. When they next visited our town we invited Bill and his wife of 50-plus years to dinner in our home. Discovering similar interests – fly fishing, gardening, opera, storytelling – we talked for hours. Dean and I were sorry to see them leave.
Analyzing why we’d made a connection in such a short time, we realized our pleasure in their company sprang from their emphasis on life’s positives. Even when they spoke of a relative’s divorce or another’s debilitating illness they emphasized their good qualities and did not discuss any dysfunction, disappointment or despair.
If, as the shrinks say, the key to happiness is attitude, researchers would do well to study the millions of Bills in this country. It’s been so long since the aberrational-obsessed media has taken note of a successful but not driven, attentive but not overbearing, protective but not dictatorial, self-confident but not egomaniacal man, we almost don’t recognize this publicity-endangered species.
I do not exaggerate. Bill is a benchmark, the sort of man generations of fathers wanted their daughters to marry and our mothers did. At least, mine did.
My father, like Bill, was stable, solvent, and endearingly sweet to his wife, children, grandchildren, friends of the family, and even strangers who latched onto him.
My father never equivocated; if you asked for his opinion he gave it to you, straight up. Even as an adult, if I had a major decision to make, I bypassed mom in favor of dad. From distant postings in Singapore, London and South America, I phoned home for his wisdom, advice and common sense.
Among his nuggets were “pay attention to your stomach; if you feel like throwing up, don’t do it,” and “perhaps it’s time for a strategic retreat from the propeller blade,” meaning back out of this mess fast!
All of us blessed with wonderful fathers now lost to us find familiarity and comfort in the presence of temporary surrogates. I recognized in Bill a warmth, interest and strength exuded by my own dad when my husband and I recently spent two days at his home.
Like my friends’ experience at 111 Hawthorne Drive when I was growing up, we became two more links in Bill’s extended family circle. With his wife organizing while he presided, distant children phoned, a local one dropped by for a free meal, two more plates were added when longtime neighbors stopped by. Sense and sensibility were leavened with laughter and conversation; for two days I felt “at home” again, as I had as a child and a young adult finding my way back to that split-level tract house where my dad waited with outstretched arms in the open door.
Like my dad was, Bill is one of the real George Baileys of the Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Blessed to live 25 years longer than my own father, who left us at age 69, Bill remains married to the love of his life, has a passel of offspring raised up to be good citizens, is respected in his profession and community, and continues to do meaningful professional work and make civic contributions.
Lest we focus too much on society’s abnormal, pathetic, and weird, this Father’s Day is a great time to pay tribute to all the great men in our lives. Be they out in the back yard tending the barbeque, like Bill, or with us in spirit, such as my father, we are blessed to love and be loved by them in this wonderful life.
