Welcome to the Fathers Honor Roll

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Jim Bracewell <jbracewell@themenscenter.com>
- Wednesday, November 12, 2003 at 15:51:04 (EST)

Most of us have fond, thankful memories of our fathers taking us fishing, teaching us how to mow the lawn, and how to do an infinite number of things...and my Dad is no different. But the most important lessons my Dad taught and instilled in me, is a sense of goodness, family, and character. It takes introspection to see it in myself, but to others it is more obvious. Being honest, respectful, and responsible are attributes that were taught to me with patience and perseverance that now define "Who I Am." The sense of integrity, that houses the core of my personality is inalienable. It is something that with his careful hands and words, he has created in me. It is a precious gift that I endeavor each and every day to pass on two my own two children. And in their young eyes, and through their actions and deeds...I get to see a part of their Grandpa...my Dad...every day.
Steven B. Puls <spuls@nc.rr.com>
Raleigh, NC USA - Thursday, May 29, 2003 at 13:57:21 (CDT)

I loved my father. My father was a good guy. He loved to fish, and loved nature. Papa is an enviornmentalist. Papa used to say don't use to much soap because it eventually will end up in the river and the ocean.
Papa left this life a few years back and I don't believe in death, but that we change form and move on to another life, until we step off the karmic wheel of life and death, and then we merge back into the cosmos.
Papa went through the great depression so he knew how to split a candy bar five ways.
So I'm sending a million hugs to my Papa, Martin T. Haag, a good guy and a good father. I love you and I miss you. And I wish I had been a better son.
All respect to you Papa,
Your youngest son,
Sadananda Matthew

Matthew Haag <sadananda83@hotmail.com>
Grass Valley, Ca. USA - Sunday, May 11, 2003 at 17:28:20 (CDT)
My father was my Hero; and his name was George Richard Evenson. He began the life I so admire on September 26th, 1937 in Bamegi MN. He recently passed away (October 19th) from a five year battle with cancer. Just as he lived life; he stood his ground and was determined to be the master of his own destiny; right up to the end. He loved a puzzle and a chanllenge; considering himself as his most worthy opponent, and advocat. He often became an expert in the hobbys he acquired because of this philosophy. He often said nothing was worth doing once if you had to do it twice: it was a waste of time. He taught me many things in life; pride, honor, integrity, the power of thought, and the greater power of communication. He taught me how to dream, how to learn, and gave me, by example; the courage to bring them all together to live the life I want. He taught me that the important things in life are often unseen, but never the less visible. He was the best father in the world, and I couldn't have asked for anyone better. Five years ago I moved back home with him, bringing my daughter with me. His wife (my step-mother: a hero in her own right) Antonya Evenson, had passed away a year before. They had been married for nearly 25 years and raised 5 children. It was the third marriage for both of them and they chose not to have a child of thier own - prefering to consider each others' "Our's". My father was never rich. I suspect he could have been; but preferred the quiete life. I know he had his faults, but part of what makes me so proud to be his child was his determination to eliminate any and all obstecles left behind through life. He could be stubborn and bullheaded - refusing to talk first in a disagreement. He would sometimes assume that others 'knew' what he meant, or how he felt; never sharing much of his emotional self. He over came these personal obsticles before he passed away. Refusing to "...leave before they're (issues) resovled." He succeeded: leaving behind 7 children from 3 marriages who not once bickered or questioned the choices he made for his passing. Two of these children he was unable to raise; always regretting that he never had the chance to be a part of thier lives. Which leads me to how I came to be here at this sight. My brother from his second marriage was raised by his mother. The last memory dad had of David was of him at the age of 2 and a half. I remember David; and always felt my dad's loss. Five years ago; David found us (ironically: we were searching for him as well) David came to visit bringing his wife and 3 children with him. David and Dad then began the long journey of building a past that would bear fruit for the future. It wasnt easy for either of them. But my heart swells with pride as I remember my brother sitting with my father on that last night: I have never heard so much said without a single word spoken. "...but never the less visible." I have become very close to my brother in the last few months. At present I am researching a few issures for him (when I found myself here). We have begun to weave our own future for the past. And while this site is dedicated to fathers, I feel compelled to honor my brother as well. I never expected to meet a man who could or would be a better father than my own, yet I have met just such a man as that ... David. Words aren't enough. Honor, respect, integrity, humor, gaiety, and guidence; faith, determination, encouragement; curiosity, loyalty, and unconditional love. I can say no more than this; He is my brother, and like our father - he is loved very much.
Sheila Evenson <shemmedia@yahoo.com>
St. Cloud, MN - Friday, November 29, 2002 at 05:41:51 (CST)

 

My Born 1924 in Britain. Died 1999, Kent, UK. His father Patrick McKie - seaman, soldier (Boer war 1900, WWI 1914-18 Royal Navy. died 1942, London, UK)

My dad was a man of honesty and truth - perhaps too honest for his own good.. Worked hard all his life and got nothing for it...except he taught me to be a man and tough out those things that you just can't change - do what many men have to do - suffer in silence. I loved him very much and respected his quiet resolve and humour.
I hope I can be like him
Roland McKie
Martham, Norfolk UK - Monday, April 15, 2002 at 08:45:19 (CDT)

 

My late father, Mitchell Morris, whom I loved dearly, had a real talent for pissing me off when I was a kid. But now that I am 40, and realise the magnitude of his accomplishments, I'm not as upset as I used to be.
Carl Morris <mantronikk@earthlink.net>
Rancho Cordova, California United States - Tuesday, March 26, 2002 at 18:31:30 (CST)

 

My father was a man who was forced by his father to become a minister in the Methodist Church. My dad really wanted to be a physician, but his dad pulled that out from under him and told him either seminary, or no more money for school. This led my dad to deep depression, which had negative results in our family. He was very judgemental of me from early on, and my mom also got into the act. This has caused me to grow up a fearful person who has seriously discounted myself and my abilities. I have all my life been fearful to taking the kinds of risks that one would expect to take to make a mark in this world. So, I have always chosen the easy, make-no-waves, way. Recently, this has really weighed on my mind, perhaps because I recently retired. My dad was devastated when my mom died prematurely at age 48 from a massive stroke. He did marry four more times, perhaps always in search of his first wife, my mother. I feel strongly that he lived a life of shame and fear, and that he was very unhappy most of the time. I am now six years younger than he was when he died at age 72. I am determined to live the rest of my life from a more authentic place than I was brought up to do.
Thomas Orr <thomaso30@home.com>
Tucson, AZ USA - Monday, January 07, 2002 at 00:19:29 (CST)

 

"Big Bob" Laughlin Comes Home

There is an unchanging,silent life within every man that no one knows but himself.
--George Moore

Dad died alone and afraid. Such fears were not about his long absence from the Catholic
Church, nor its propaganda of hell. To Dad the Church was an institution to which one mustered outward reverence, while inwardly rejecting it as a lifeless institution that sought to replace leasure with guilt. I don’t know what he thought of the next world; my guess is that it offered nothing to one so bound to this one. No reunion with dead family members, no bathing in the
bliss of God’s love, no freedom from stress and responsibility could compete with a wife who made him the centerpiece of her life; or the comradery of bar room buddies who were always glad
to see him, full of raucous laughter, off-colored jokes and the hilarity of competing in tournaments of shuffle baseball or darts. How could any place dull with do-gooders waving you onto a room full of white light hope to compete with this? Would anyplace else allow you to look back to a time when you were so drunk that your pals dropped you off at the front door of a house that resembled yours, then ring the doorbell and run? And anyone who has ever read their
catechism knows that there is no place in Heaven where you can watch TV and eat a half gallon of ice cream in a bowl full of ginger ale.

But Dad’s will to live and all that held him here were not enough. He died slumped over in a wheelchair as he looked out of his 5th floor window at Jewish Brooklyn Hospital. He had been moved from the medical ward of Brooklyn State Hospital when the damage of his 2nd stroke did not improve. Brooklyn State had been his employer for 30 years and when they moved him, he knew he was never going home again. I can only guess at how helpless and trapped he felt, like a
small fish in an evaporating tidal pool.

In his last days, Dad’s anxieties manifested as demanding dependency on his wife, Mary. She was a "psyche" nurse and suffered the fate of many in her field, who marriage often
resembled an emergency room. Throughout their marriage she was as much a mother as wife.
And, I, who grew up unable to distinguish intimacy from engulfment, could not tolerate Dad’s neediness and Mom’s continuous self-sacrifice:“You visit him every day, twice a day; you bring him things and he’s still angry and wants more.” I would protest. “Don’t go to see him until he agrees to be more appreciative.”Dad’s illness allowed me to give voice, thought obliquely, to my won hated dependence. Though we never acknowledged it, or were even aware of it, Dad and I were rivals for Mom’s attention.

How like my father I was with my selfish demands; how like so many men I was, who tried desperately to hide their deepest emotions behind a smokescreen of anger. Anger for me, and all the men I learned from, was a talisman protecting us against our imprisoned vitality. Our
relationship was like a hall of mirrors where we could only see parts of each other. Like two ships in a dense fog, we kept our distance to avoid collision. We tracked each other using distrust for
radar. We were more like enemies keeping alive an absurd tradition handed down as an heirloom. Only in the last few years of his life did we break from this legacy that victimized us both.

If there was a blessing to Dad’s long suffering, it was that he died facing toward the
Northwest, the direction of his birthplace, Towanda, PA. I know that in those last moments of his life his thoughts went back to where he was born, to where his deepest memories were preserved in the land and people of Bradford County. Here were born all the Laughlins from my brother and
I back to my ggrandparents, who settled here after a long journey from famine Ireland.
Though dad was the first and only one of his family to leave Towanda, elemental parts of him remained behind to form a magnetic field drawing him back like a compass needle to true north.

In his last moments of his life, Dad road his imagination out of that hospital room and headed over the East River and Lower Manhattan, over the Hudson River and onto New Jersey
and Delaware where once past Wilmington he was in PA. From there it was a straight
shot north to Scranton where we would get off the main highway onto Rte 6, the road that led into the heart of the spectacular Endless Mountains. If there was one thing Dad and I shared, one
thing that held us together despite so much turmoil, it was our shared love for Towanda and our journey together to visit his dad and family. Route 6 took us up to spectacular vistas overlooking
the lush farm valleys far below and then it descended steeply and paralleled the ever twisting Susquehanna that both nourished and destroyed whatever land and towns it cut through.

Just the name of the towns we passed brings back a file full of warm associations and
feelings From Scranton we would drive through Chinchilla, Clark Summit, Factoryville to Tunkhannock where the road veered sharply away from the Susquehanna toward Meshopen when we rejoined the great river and followed it and the Lackawana RR tracks to Lacyville and
Skinner’s Eddy across the border into Bradford County. Now we were in the area where so many Laughlins had at one time called home. Places like Standing Stone, named after a rock formation in the river, Wyalusing, Wysox, Sheshequin and Towanda, names of Native American origin.

Our journey reached its end as we crossed the Towanda Street bridge, washed out several times by floods, and entered the middle of town. Main street ran along the base of a steep hill into
which houses were stuck at right angles. A tiny earth-quake measuring 1 on the Richter scale would send them and their attached outdoor laundry tumbling into the river and down stream to
the Chesapeake Bay. We retreated into the silence of our own thoughts as we crossed the bridge. This may have been the most intimated moments we ever shared. We never talked of it, partly
because we never shared anything personal and partly because there were no words to frame an experience shared between a father and son whose fractured lives began in the same place. In one
can compare one’s life journey to a river, then this is where the river of our lives began.

Dad was always going home in the trips he took back to Towanda, the local newspaper he subscribed to and even in those dreadful Christmas-New Years’binges that were like no other throughout the year. Dad was a heavy beer drinker and it was a rare morning he could not get up for work. But whisky had a debilitating impact on him: he would suffer blackouts, get sick and fail to get up in the morning. He could no quit until the holiday season was over. It was during
the holiday season at 19 that he lost both his mother and his 1st wife. His mother suffered a fatal heart attack just before Christmas and his wife, Eva died a month after giving birth to their first child, a boy named Donald. Dad allowed his in-laws to adopt Donald, a decision that he regretted all his life and one that, however understandable, left him tormented with shame and
failure. In a cycle as predicable as any migration, his unbearable pain returned and buried him beneath an emotional avalanche for which he sought relief through the numbing powers of hard
liquor.
John Lewis Laughlin <johnllaughlin@aol.com>
Glenn Dale, MD US - Thursday, December 27, 2001 at 15:03:11 (CST)

The day of my father's birth was December 2nd. I didn't think of that yesterday but I remember him every day. A void that can never be filled.
William Schubert, Jr <william_schubert@yahoo.com>
Jacksonville, FL US - Monday, December 03, 2001 at 05:56:03 (CST)

I didn't know my father very well. He died when I was nine so never had the opportunity to forge a relationship with him. I only have certain memories of him saving me from drowning, taking me to the movies, the first time he showed me how guys take a leak, just pivotal moments. I know he worked for the WPA during WWII as a carpenter and was responsible for building a fine school building in a nearby city. He ran his business and enjoyed his life until he got too ill to continue. He really should've taken better care of himself but I guess a lot of men were not into that in the fifties and sixties. I would also like to mention the grandfather I never knew who came to this country in 1913 and sent for his family in 1916 as soon as he could.
Carl <myster-e@excite.com>
Orange County, New York USA - Sunday, December 02, 2001 at 13:48:54 (CST)

My father name is Billa Vittal his birth day is on 1940. He is a good friend to me.
Billa Yadagiri <yadagiri18@yahoo.co.in>
Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh India - Monday, October 29, 2001 at 03:19:18 (CST)

My father's birth day is on December 12th 1952
Madhavarao <madhavarao1978@yahoo.com>
Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh India - Monday, October 29, 2001 at 03:11:34 (CST)

My father, LeRoy A. Stimpson, died 27 years ago this July. Here is something I wrote about my memory of his last days. I miss him every day.
++++++

Dig Deeper
I'm finally reading All the President's Men. I found the paperback in the laundry room and have always meant to read it.

I was struck first by the photos, the exact ones my father once looked at every day as he rattled his newspaper. Twenty-nine earnest political men, many at microphones, many lying even as the flashbulbs went off, all with hairstyles take me back. For those too young to remember, the book tells the story of how Washington Post reporters Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman (played by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward) cracked the story of the Watergate break-in and eventually forced President Nixon to resign. Photos aside, the book is a meticulously-assembled history of how you pin a President to the mat.

My father flew into Watergate. He thought Sam Ervin was a homespun god, and he despised such personages as John and Martha Mitchell, John Ehrlichman and H.R. Haldeman, and Bebe Rebozo. I was 12. My journalistic interests extended only to grabbing "Peanuts" after my father was done with the B section. I thought Bebe Rebozo was a cartoon character; I also kept confusing Ehrlichman and Haldeman with Huntley and Brinkley. The senate hearings were on every afternoon that spring of 1974, pre-empting "Star Trek," and my father and I watched.

I think my father would have loved to see Nixon crushed. My father died that July. Nixon resigned in August.

Now with a semi-professional's I can look at what Woodward and Bernstein - both were younger during Watergate than I am now - went through. I could never have done what they did. I like to sleep too much.

I remember in the movie Jason Robards, who played the gruff but brilliant editor Ben Bradlee, stood in front of Redford and Hoffman during a slow moment and teased them about being able to go home and take a shower. Turns out that Redford and Hoffman had it easy compared with Woodward and Bernstein.

A normal round of phone calls for the two investigators took hours. They judged success with a source with how many steps they could take into the person's apartment. They got calls at home and got tailed on lunches. They kept every sheet of paper and every note. They took no days off. They tricked their way into hotel rooms with an irony - considering what they were investigating - that I'm sure they were too weary to notice. Though often anonymous, their sources were triple-checked: This process has been documented so long that it's the kind of history you find in a dog-eared paperback in a laundry room, but still I can't figure out how they did it.

Not that I've never been exhausted in the line of duty. My first month on a daily in Ithaca, N.Y., for example, I helped cover a fire that killed five children. Later the paper sent me to interview the aunt of an arrested murderer, and I felt like Hoffman/Bernstein as I sat on her couch, my notebook tucked away, as she rose again and again to answer reporters' phone calls. I offered to go to the store for her so she wouldn't have to face her neighbors.

Eventually, I lost even that edge. When I covered cops in Baltimore, a woman got her throat cut and everyone started whispering "Russian mob." I guess I could have spent all night in some place full of triple-checkable, anonymous Russians, and maybe cracked the case. Instead I just digested the police press releases. (They never caught the killer.) When a depressed man shot his wife and then himself a year later, I again was motivated to visit the relatives' house. I never got as far as their couch, however, and they sure didn't want me to go to any store for them.

My pinnacle as a reporter of human catastrophe did come in Baltimore, when a 14-year-old boy swiped his mother's Chevrolet one spring night and killed himself by driving into a tree. I was re-typing police reports when my editor egged me to dig deeper.

I went to the crash site and studied the skid marks and the gouged bark; I knelt in the roadside gravel. Later, I sat down with the kid's mom and his friends - the mom got us all together; she was looking to sue the boy's one-time mental hospital, and wanted coverage - and I played the sensitive reporter while they replayed the boy's life. Turned out his father had died when he was a little kid, too.

I wrote the story and put the family's old snapshots in the paper, and I won an award and a gift certificate to a restaurant. "And see, you didn't want to do the story, did you?" my editor said.

No, much as my father would have been pleased, much as I wanted Redford to play me in the movie.

Jeff Stimpson <jtstimpson@aol.com>
New York, NY USA - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 08:40:31 (CDT)

Everything that I know about being a man I learned from my father, Moses Schimmel, by his example.

Humility: One day when I was 29 and working for an older lawyer, I was introduced by him to one of his clients, a doctor. This man asked me if I was Moses Schimmel's son and I proudly responded yes. He relayed to me how my father, as a medic in the army at the end of World War II, did the chemical analysis on the lamp shades that the Nazi's had made of Jewish children's skin. His testimoney at the Nurenberg Trials sealed their fates. My father had never told me that he did anything in the army, except march through France in the freezing rain. As a teen, I had asked him what his greatest accomplishment had been during his tour of duty and his response was that he went all the way through World War II without ever firing his weapon at anyone.

I knew my father was smart. He always had the answer to my questions when I was a child. That same doctor told me that my dad was the original "Dougie Houser." He graduated from the Yeshiva High School at fourteen and was accepted to medical school when he was only seventeen. He never told me.

Mercy: Dad grew up with a boy who became a lawyer and judge and then went back into private practice. This man cheated my father and some other men out of money. One of the clients pressed criminal charges against the man and the State was going to take away his law license. Dad took up a collection from the man's boyhood friends to pay the client back so that the license would not be canceled. When I asked him why he helped a man who had taken his money, he told me anyone can make a mistake. If the man lost his livelihood, he would not have the chance to repent.

Reputation: I was hired to take over a trade secrets suit in Federal Court. The opposing counsel, who I had never met before, was from one of the most prestigious, expensive, and large downtown Houston law firms. At the first conference called by the judge, my opponent made a point of letting me know before we were called into chambers that he expected to get favorable treatment from the judge, who was formerly a partner at his firm. I said nothing about his expectation as we were called into the judge's office. Once seated, the judge asked each of us to introduce ourself. My opponent did not wait to be called on, but jumped up and introduced himself and emphasized his law firm. He also introduced the partner that was with him from his firm. The judge made no mention of his past connection to the firm and did not inquire as to the well being of any of his former colleagues. The judge then turned to me and asked me who I was. I gave him my name and he immediately asked me if I was Sandra and Moe Schimmel's son. I answered affirmatively. He turned to my opponent and, with a big smile on his face, went on for close to five minutes describing his admiration for my step mother, Sandy, and how he and Moe had studied together as boys. He closed by adding that if I were half the man my father was, he expected this case to be tried in an exemplary manner. I replied that I knew that he knew my parents but that I thought that it would be out of place for me to bring it to his attention, if he did not broach the subject first. My opponent's visage dropped to the floor.

Moderation: As a child, I was an obsessive perfectionist. Part of my problem was that although I wanted everything to be perfect beyond the capability to reach that state, I also had attention deficit disorder and was too impatient to concentrate on the effort needed to follow step by step instructions. Dad taught me to slow down and concentrate on each step, because skipping steps lead to a bad product and that meant that I would have to take three steps, instead of one. I would do the job wrong, then, take time to undo it, and, last, time to do it right. Moderation was the key. Work hard at work without being distracted, but never take work home. At home, concentrate on enjoying my family and always take Shabos off to have a relationship with God and my children. Take a vacation each year with the whole family and one with just my wife, so we can relate to each other without the kids. Money is important for what it can do for your family, but share with the needy. Don't destroy your family by working too much for money. Who is happy? He who is happy with his lot.

Attitude: Dad's life has not always been a bed of roses. He has had his share of successes and failures, joys and sorrow, but he is almost always a beacon of cheer. He lost two businesses before hitting his stride with the drug store. His father died of a heart attack, when Dad was in college. He had to sell his pharmacy when the grocery store it was in was being sold to another chain. His divorce and separation from us children was extremely painful. Most painful of all was when my step brother, Rickey, came down with Leukemia and suffered in the hospital for eight months. Dad would tell me how he would wake in tears, months after Rickey had died. Still, those who know him know that he insists upon brightening the room with a hearty "Hasta la vista, kiss my sista!" His motto is, "Life is too short to make yourself and everyone around you miserable, smile!"

Devotion to Torah: Last Passover Shabos, Dad and I went to Schul. We sat in the back, as services started. The Gabai, who is in charge of the service, approached Dad and explained to him that the honoree who had been chosen to deliver the Haftorah, the weekly portion of the Bible written in Hebrew, had come down with a severely infected throat and had just sent word with a friend that he would not be coming that day. He asked Dad if he could fill in and sing the Haftorah, which was particularly arcane, since Shabos seldom fell on the second day of Passover, necessitating a special verse that was rarely heard. Dad protested that he had not even read the chapter in the last twenty or more years. But then he asked for five minutes to refresh his memory before he made his decision. He read the verse for five minutes and then told the man he would take up the challenge. Five minutes later, without further rehearsal, Dad was called to the stage and sang the Haftorah in perfect trope and errorless. Not bad for a man of seventy-two years of age wearing trifocals.

Fatherhood: To my shame, when I was fifteen, I decided that shuttling between my mother's house, where I lived during week days with her, Lauren, and my step father, and my father's house, where every other weekend I lived with him, Sandy, Mark, Rickey, Lisa and Grandma Belle, was too much of a strain on my psyche. I felt like I had two lives, with two opposing sets of parents, with two philosophies that I could not reconcile. So, I quit visiting Moe and Sandy, until I turned eighteen. At that time, I wanted more independence from my step father and that meant that I had to get a job, so his financial support would not be vital when I graduated and went to college. I was offered a job at a stereo store, downtown, but since my step father was not encouraging my efforts at freedom, I was forbidden to take my mother's Cadillac to work. Either I would have to take an hour long bus ride or find another way to work.

I started to remember when Mark still lived with us, before moving back to Dad's and Sandy's house. Mark discovered, much earlier than I, that the only way to retain his self respect was to refuse to take money from my step father and to sever the tar covered strings that were attached to that money. He secured a paper route that earned him enough funds to have some independence. Again, my step father did nothing to encourage the project. Getting up at 4:30 A.M. on Sunday, during the winter, to roll and deliver the early paper was particularly trying. Nonetheless, Moses was there to take Mark to deliver the papers in the freezing sleet. He was happy to have the time to be with Mark and share a father-son encounter. This started me to thinking of all the other loving, selfless things that Dad had done for me when we lived together, and after the divorce. Soon, I asked myself why I had chosen to cut off my relationship with a person who had never shown me any face other than that of a boundlessly caring and loving father. I was unsatisfied with any answer I could come up with. So, I walked the eight short blocks between our houses, which seemed like a wide gulf at the time. I rang the door bell and was accepted into the family fold, without question or recrimination. As long as I worked at the stereo store, Dad got up early and took me to work, before he went to his own store, and we shared the same father-son special time together that Mark and he had shared years before. By that summer, I moved out of my mother's house and back in with the rest of my family.

Forgiveness: My father's forgiveness of my estrangement from him was just one of several lessons he taught me. For fifteen years I would not talk to my mother. The mere thought of having to be in her company again lead me to wake in the night in cold sweats. It was my father who repeatedly lectured me on the wrongness of my course of action and how it was sinful for me to deprive my mother of the pleasure of knowing my wife and children, as well as the error of depriving them of a relationship with her. Although I did not give into his request for me to make up with her and my step father, in my heart, I knew that if Dad was this persistent, I should consider his view. He never made a point of lecturing me, unless I was straying into dangerous waters. So, when my sister, Lauren, invited me over to her house for her son's second birthday party and warned me that mom and my step father would be there, I responded that I was man enough not to care and not to worry about an ugly scene. Mother was so glad to see me and the kids and my wife. She hugged and kissed them. I stood off from them, not wanting to get reinvolved with a person who had caused me enough pain in my life to discourage any desire to chance it again, but she insisted that I let her hug and kiss me. Then she asked if my lips were broken or if I could give her a kiss. I fought back the urge to ask her if she really thought I wanted to kiss a person who had tried to shoot me with a thirty-eight and had never apologized. Instead, I kissed her, as I knew that my father would insist. She begged me to promise to bring the children over to her house for a visit. This was the house where she had my room painted and remodeled within twenty-four hours after I left to rejoin my family at Sandy's and Moe's house, after the attempted shooting. I tightened my jaw and made the promise, seeing my father's face as he had lectured me on this subject in the past. Several months passed between the promise and the first time that I loaded my wife and kids in the car for the visit. Many nightmares about how my mother would ingratiate herself with my children and then intentionally or thoughtlessly hurt them or me woke me between the time of the promise and the visit, but when we finally did go, everyone had a good time. I have never regretted fighting my own impulses and listening to my father's advice on this subject. I have often regretted not listening to his advice on this subject earlier.

Compassion: Shabos dinner in my parents' house was always a special occasion when my grandmother, Belle Cohen, may her loving memory last forever, cooked her roasted brisket, kugel, and succotash. It was not to be missed. We ate at 8:00 sharp, which was when Dad usually was able to make it home, after closing his pharmacy. Sometimes when I was still in law school, I would go pick up my father, when one of our cars was in the shop. One cold and rainy Friday, I arrived after studying all day. As usual, he had been at work since early in the morning, when he opened the store. So, he was rightfully insistent that I pick him up promptly at 7:30. I was tired and hungry and I could see by my father's drooping eyelids that he felt the same way, as he pulled the canvass sheet over the counter to close off his store from the greater grocery that surrounded it.

As he locked the small door to the counter, a weary, gray haired lady with a doctor's script in her hand, and true despair in her eyes, approached from behind him. She implored him to reopen for her, as her husband was dying from cancer and she had to have this medicine to assuage his unbearable pain. She had been to two other pharmacies, both of which were out of the medication. Never complaining of his own tiredness, my father smiled at the lady, patted her on the back, and took the prescription behind the canvass curtain to see if he had the pills. He only had enough to fill two days' requirement, which would leave the ill man without respite on Sunday, when even fewer drug stores were likely to be open. So, he called several wholesale drug suppliers and other retail pharmacies that were operated by colleagues of his, and he found a few more pills, but not enough at any one to fill the whole prescribed amount. He came out from behind the canvass and told the lady not to worry, although he only had enough for part of the order, he had located the remainder at other stores. If she would come back in an hour and a half, he would make sure that she would not go home without the medicine her husband needed.

We got in my car and drove to the other side of town to the other stores and back. It took two hours, but when we returned, the lady was waiting, almost frantic. She thought we had forgotten her. Dad assured her that would never happen and he opened the store again and filled her order. She was almost in tears with gratitude. We drove home, exhausted and starving, but I had learned a lesson in compassion that will never dim in my memory. Shabos dinner was especially enjoyable that night, even though it was warmed over.

Perspective: Moses has taught me the magic question to ask whenever a conflict arises: "Will this amount to a hill of beans a hundred years after we are dead?" If the answer is no, then a compromise should be made. If the answer is yes, then no quarter should be given. In my fifty years of life, almost all conflicts have been resolved as not amounting to a hill of beans. Without this lesson, I would have never been able to overcome my obsessive perfectionist personality and I would have probably died from an ulcer by now.

Moses has taught me not to seek revenge, wealth, or fame. These all die with a man. It is the love and good work that a person does that lives on after him. With all the other good lessons he has taught me, he will live forever.


Bruce Ian Schimmel <bruce_ian_schimmel@altavista.com>
Houston, Texas United States - Thursday, March 08, 2001 at 10:13:39 (CST)

My Father is Earl Lee Mizner. When I was younger my father was never able to tell me he loved me. I hated him for that. But for the past 5 years we have had a better relationship than my mom and I. Now that relationship is being threatened by a tumor in his leg. God willing is benign. Im too young to lose my father. He was a farmer as a child, went in to the Army for a few years. Married Mom when he was 21, and gave me the perfect brother in '78.
I love my dad.
Carrie Howell <Necro_Lovin@yahoo.com>
Kearney, Nebraska USA - Wednesday, January 17, 2001 at 17:54:43 (CST)

I never knew my father. However, there were several men who provided that surrogate role for me beginning with my Uncle Bullah (Samuel Roberts and Cecil Roberts). In addition to these two men, I wish to honor Errol Jackson, Charles Coakely, William Hepburn, Hubert Dean, Ellerton Pratt, Raymond Carreathers, Alvin I. Thomas, Mervin Osby, Waymon Webster. All of these men contributed in their own special way to my development and growth. While I do not know what it would be like to have my own father, the nurturing, encouragement, consideration for my personal development they gave me could not have been any better. They all treated me as if I was their own son. We never did somethings that sons and fathers do, like playing football or baseball or going to the movies. But they thought me about life and provided that listening ear whenever I had a concern. They also gave me pocketchange when I did not even ask for it. They are men who would be fathers to anyone who put themselves in their paths. They are proof positive that anyone can be a daddy, but only special people can be fathers. For this I am enternally grateful.
The Esquire <ican2@iwon.com>
Prairie, Texas USA - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 12:27:09 (CST)

My father's name was George "Biff" Montero, he was born in 1904 and died in 1969. Biff, was a great baseball player and he is remembered in the New Orleans Hall of Fame. I was very proud of my father and even today whenever I meet someone and they ask me if I am related to "Biff" I respond, "Biff was my DAD.....
George Montero <gimontero@hotmail.com>
New Orleans, LA USA - Saturday, September 23, 2000 at 08:26:06 (CDT)

My father is Leonard (Len) Smith, born South Berwick, Nova Scotia, Dec. 4, 1922. Dad's father walked out when he was 4, leaving a wife and 6 children in poverty and sickness. Dad's energy and charm, shared by his brothers and sisters, survived the depression. Many a Parsnip (only!)stew was served. Failing his WWII medical because of a "bad heart" (an exceptional athlete his entire life!) Dad worked his way through the hotel industry, training as an accountant and caring for his mother until her death in 1950. He married in 1952, having six children of his own by 1961. Born in 1960, I was fully 20 before I realized Dad came from a fatherless home. A short man, long on self confidence, I was so proud of his success and connection to his community as a boy. My fahter's caring after my mother's debilitating stroke in 1966 left an impression on all my family that won't ever be forgotten. Supportive and loving as a husband and father, their marriage endured until June 2000, when she passed away after 5 years of nursing care from my father. In my teens, for a short while I accepted some of the ridicule I overheard about Dad as truth and held up as proof his, at times, short-tempered criticism of me. But his support as my career began, his respect and love for my wife and children, has been a wonderful confirmation of my chilhood adoration for him. I have always known - the catch we played, fish we caught, things we've fixed, love we share - these are the things most precious to men and sons. Humbled by his devotion, I pray to find a way to spend more time with him while he is in such fine health and beyond.
Paul Smith
Halifax, NS Canada - Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 14:17:48 (CDT)

My father is Harlan Raymond Walker. He was born in 1924 and was raised by his grandparents on his mother’s side. As a child he wasn’t allowed any contact with his father, Alton Otto Walker. Times were hard for us financially and I remember my dad working hard and long at many different jobs to support us. Jobs that included, machinist, chemical plant operator, convenience store manager, and postman. For awhile he owned his own grocery business but was robbed repeatedly and eventually had to give that up.
As a boy I idolized him and wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I remember feeling safe when he was around, safe and protected. We laughed a lot and he was full of good humor and fun to be around. I got a lot of negative messages about him from my mother and some of her relatives, however. It seemed that I as I entered my teenage years I got the idea that the only way for me to become a man myself was to reject everything about my dad so I proceeded to do just that. I had plenty of ammunition to use against him, much of it supplied by my mother and her family. I thought I was smarter, wiser and more hip so I didn’t bother to respect or honor him for many years. Like many of my peers from the 60’s I was at odds with family and society and turned to drugs during my twenties. It became convenient to blame my dad for many of my real and imagined problems that stemmed mainly from my drug use. After cleaning up my act I began to wonder about this man and his life. I also began an amends process with him that I am still working on to this day, many years later. I sought him out and shared some of my life with him. I was with him for his bypass operation. I was with him for his aneurysm repair. I’ve realized that many of the denigrating views I had about my dad weren’t my own views at all, but were views that I had borrowed from my mother and borrowed from our society in general. Thank God I’ve had the opportunity to learn this and make up for my disrespect. Thank God he’s lived long enough for me to tell him I reject all that bullshit I used to believe about him. I know now that he was the best father he knew how to be. He’s given me his WW II medals because he knows now that I appreciate and respect him just as he is. Today we are friends, with mutual respect for each other as men. We are close, not as close as I'd like us to be but as close as we can be. I consider myself lucky to have this this new way of seeing my father. Thanks for the opportunity to express this.
 Larry Walker <LWLCMH@aol.com>
Friendswood , TX 77546 USA - Wednesday, July 12, 2000 at 18:12:10 (CDT)

Happy Father's Day!
Keith D. Dewees <KeithD6@cs.com>
Wescosville, PA USA - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 13:09:36 (CDT)

My father is Mark Waldman. His father was Zigfried Waldmann, born in Vienna Austria. My grandfather had a very hard life on the road as a salesman in Winnipeg, Man. My father never really knew his father, and I never really knew my father until more recently. As my father has aged, he has also mellowed with his decreased responsibility after his retirement. I enjoy my time with my father now more than ever. It is unfortunate that the early years were tough. It affected my brothers and I deeply to the point where we have had a great challenge at being close and trusting the concept of love between men in our family. We will struggle, and I pray that we will ultimately triumph! Happy father's day dad and brother!
Grant M. Waldman <torontomen@wild4life.com>
Toronto, Ontario Canada - Wednesday, June 07, 2000 at 22:14:32 (CDT)

My father, Bob Miller is a World War II vet. He was a radio man ahead of the fleet that landed on D - Day. He encouraged me to try new things and took me and my brother fishing and golfing. He provided a safe and comfortable home. He also took the family camping on the coast. Because of that I love being outdoors and playing golf. I plan to play golf with my father on Fathers Day.
Jon Miller <melly@teleport.com>
Eugene, OR US - Wednesday, June 07, 2000 at 13:20:12 (CDT)

My father, Howard Rorabaugh, died nearly five years ago at age 78. He was a hard working man, who built roads, farmed the land, mined coal, and worked in a carbon factory. Much of his work was done in bitter cold or sweltering heat. But he did not complain and he did not leave. He stood his ground, honored his wife and raised his children. Several years before he died we began to talk as one man to another. And when he died I grieved his passing, but held no regrets for words unspoken. I still talk to him when I am in need of courage. He often visits me in dreams and does not appear troubled or distressed. Thank you father for your committment, yourlove,..your example.
Jim Rorabaugh <Sunlions@aol.com>
Winter Park, FL USA - Tuesday, June 06, 2000 at 22:21:36 (CDT)

My father, Teseo, came into my life when I was 2 years old. He and my mom met in Italy in 1946 in post war Vicenza, Italy. They fell in love and 5 years later he was "allowed" into this country to join us.

He is one of the most wonderful men I have ever met. His abilty to love unconditionally, his loyalty to his family and his unending support has helped me appreciate what being a man is all about.

Teseo taught me to "take care of the customer", to not expect perfection in life, but to make the best with what you get. He showed me that one doesn't need to have a fancy title or job to be respected or loved.

I thank the Spirit for sending Teseo to our family and making my life so much more wonderful.
Free Polazzo <freepolazzo@mindspring.com>
Douglasville, GA USA - Sunday, June 04, 2000 at 14:28:00 (CDT)

My Father came into my life when I was 2 years old. He and my mom met in Italy in 1946 in post war Vicenza, Italy. They fell in love and 5 years later he was "allowed" into this country to join us.

He is the most wonderful man I have ever met. His abilty to love unconditionally, his loyalty to his family and his unending support has helped me appreciate what being a man is all about.

He taught me to "take care of the customer", to not expect perfection in life, but to make the best with what you get. He showed me that one doesn't need to have a fancy title or job to be respected or loved.

I thank the Spirit for sending to our family and making my life so much more wonderful because he is in it.
Free Polazzo <freepolazzo@mindspring.com>
Douglasville, GA USA - Sunday, June 04, 2000 at 14:25:11 (CDT)

My dad is Donald Michelson was born in Daytona Beach, Florida in 1934. He's the son of Malcolm Donald Michelson who was the son of Kuno Michelson from Sweden.

From these men, I learned a passion for nature and the environment. The beauty and power of music and all the arts. A profound respect for working hard and doing any job well. These men worked hard everyday of their lives and they always remind me, as my grandfather used to say, to "remember the little guy".

Though I've struggled with understanding and coming to terms with some of the harsh ways my father treated me growing up, I still respect and love him. I appreciate him asking my forgiveness now, and for trying to make amends. Our journey is not over yet. And I look forward to getting to know even better the man my dad is today.
Curtis Michelson <curtism2@bellsouth.net>
Orlando, FL USA - Friday, June 02, 2000 at 23:37:46 (CDT)

My father is Bill Foster, born on 11-10-44. He is now retired from farming, and works for a trucking company. He taught me the importance of hard, quality work, and being dedicated to family.
Lance Foster <hero297348@aol.com>
- Tuesday, May 30, 2000 at 19:59:32 (CDT)

My fathers name was Chris F. Bracewell. He was born in Dublin, GA in 1920.
He served in the US Army in WWII. He died at the age of 54 after suffering for years from disabling injuries received in an auto/train accident. He was the best father that he knew how to be. I will always love and miss him.
Jim Bracewell
James R. Bracewell <jbracewell@themenscenter.com>
Winter Park, FL USA - Tuesday, May 23, 2000 at 05:19:30 (CDT)