...and I have a ton of problems.
Like many of you, I have my fair share of day-to-day challenges. Though I try not to think about them too much, there are times amidst the grind of daily life when I cannot help but lament such hurdles and dwell on the many external ingredients that helped create them. While this has become an all too frequent pastime in my relatively pain-free existence, it’s something my father never seemed to do at all.
Like many blue-collar construction vets of his time, my father was deeply patriotic and quite socially conservative. I believe the last democrat he voted for was LBJ (believing Goldwater was just too extreme), but he loved his union (the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) and despite his individualism he believed to the core that he had a far better existence because of wages and benefits provided through collective bargaining than anything he would have attained alone. In many ways, I think he embodied the principles of a lot of his generation, and at least to me, he was a man’s man who loved his wife, his family, his work, his union, and his country at levels I don’t have the writing talent to convey. Though it probably seems corny, I think he saw himself as a truly rich man.
One of the traits that always tripped me out about my father, was the fact that he had almost zero tolerance for complaining or self-pity. Though his life had been far more difficult than mine would likely ever be, he didn’t have much patience for general bellyaching, and he certainly had no time to listen to me complain about much of anything. Though he never said so, given his experiences living through the Depression and taking multiple Kamikaze hits on the USS Ticondaroga, I suspect my life must of looked like a cakewalk to him. That was one of the problems with his old-school rigidity…he just didn’t appreciate all that I had to deal with in the modern era.
The U.S. Navy aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) lists to port in the aftermath of a kamikaze attack in which four suicide planes hit the ship, 21 January 1945.
When I was a teenager, and felt quite certain there was empirical evidence to undisputably prove I was truly all-knowing, I had the unflattering habit of blaming any percieved trouble or crisis I might be having on just about anyone or anything but me. Thinking back, it is amazing how much I knew from about 13 to 25, and how much clarity I had when it came to identifying the flaws of others. Though I had experienced little in the way of real life, I had developed this uncanny ability to have the answers to just about everything. As those of you know that are cursed with this gift, this type of supreme knowledge comes at a price. Sine I indeed knew so much, I was always aware when the world was conspiring against me. Thankfully, knowing my father had little patience for my insights, I wisely muted much of my tendency to whine about my problems…especially when he was arround.
Thinking back on it, my lack of complaining to my dad might have been less of a calculated attempt to hold back than the reality that he and I really didn’t have many substanative converstatons in those years. As I remember it, I was just too busy. Oh sure, there were times when we’d talk about safe subjects like the Dodgers or the weather, but for a long period we strayed away from anything too deep. He just didn’t have the benefit of my clarity, and anytime we tried to talk about anything too heavy, his inability to see things through a fresh set of lenses was invariably quite frustrating.
There were about six times in my life (it probably happened at about two-year increments between 13 and 25) when the passage of time would result in my getting amnesia about his inability to understand the nuances of my challenges. Usually, while we’d be out in the garage together (he’d be puttering or working while I lifted weights in the gym he built for me), I’d forget his disdain for whining and launch into some longwinded diatribe about my latest dilemma. As I remember it, it was likely about an idiotic teacher, some stupid former friend, an incompetent coach or worst of all some shortsighted girl that didn’t truly appreciate the attributes of a gifted young man. Despite my father’s lack of understanding and insight into problems brought on by others, he would always listen. Sometimes, it was amazing how I’d go on and on while he just kept working, nodding his head occasionally, and listening to me vent without ever interrupting.
When I was finished, he would usually ask a couple of questions for clarification. It was always clear by his line of questioning that he had been listening intently, and it would often seem as though he was finally gaining a further appreciation for both my problem and my justifiable status as the victim. Then, after a couple of minutes of his questioning, he would ask in some variation of ways (so it never seemed familiar) how bad I wanted to truly understand the root of the problem. Once I had expressed a strong desire to listen to any advice that might help me correct the situation, he would then stop what he was doing, walk over to me, and ask me one more time if I wanted to know the source of the problem and any possible remedy. Once I assured him I did, he would tug on my sleeve and guide me over so I was looking directly into the mirror that covered the west wall of the gym area. We’d stand there a minute, then he’d point at me and pretty much say the same thing. “Now…if you really want to find the problem, stand here long enough and it should become clear to you. If you stand here long enough, you’ll probably find an effective solution too.”
It’s funny, though he pulled the stunt no more than a half-dozen (probably less) times over the course of my lifetime, he did it with enough time in between that my self-absorbed focus never allowed me to see it coming. Damn he was good.
Years later when I began working at the IBEW International Office, a friend and mentor must have spotted my propensity to blame others. Thankfully, he shared the following poem.
The Man in the Glass
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day,Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that man has to say.
For it isn't your father or mother or wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass;
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one starring back from the glass.
He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest.
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed the most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years.
And get pats on the back as you pass,But your final reward will be the heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.
Dale Wimbrow (c) 1934
1895-1954
My father has been gone for over five years now, but there are times when I wish he was still around to point me into that glass. Even now, when I’m perplexed at how I ended up at the center of an unpleasant situation, I am amazed how often I eventually recognize I had complete control of the wheel all along the way. When I take the time to read that poem or to think of my father’s simple yet sage advice, it’s astonishing how much better I can make things almost immediately by simply correcting the one thing I can control. Me.
Not sure what you’re doing this weekend, but whatever it is, I hope it’s good. You’ve probably been working pretty hard, so please take some time to recharge these two days with the people (and pets) that you love.
Not sure what today's song has to do wtih this story...but too be honest...I just wanted to hear it. BTW...I did not have time to proof this so I apologize in advance for any typos and mispellings.
Have a great weekend.
You get what you need...
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