A father's stories can make us who we are
July 29, 2019 at 12:37 p.m.
Things My Father Taught Me
Many years ago, soon after I began writing this column regularly, a priest acquaintance was walking past my table at a social gathering. He leaned over and whispered, “What are you going to write about when you run out of things your father taught you?” That was 13 years and 500 hundred columns ago, and I’m still not worried about running out of stories to write.
One of the most important things my father taught me is that every day, every experience, brings valuable lessons if you are present enough— in heart, soul and mind—to embrace them. He learned that from his Father, who was there to comfort a fatherless child.
You see, his human father was murdered when my father was just a little boy of seven. His dad’s body was found floating in the Hudson River. I can’t imagine what would have prompted someone to kill this simple man who dug graves for a living, but when my father shared that story with me he reminded me that violence doesn’t need a reason.
I guess my dad’s life was hard by today’s standards, but you’d never know it by his positive outlook or his easy-going, joyful demeanor. He was a whistler. There was always a happy tune on his lips in spite of the fact that he grew up under the shadow of his father’s violent death. Ultimately, financial strains forced him to quit school while in eighth grade to support his mother. I would question him about why his older brothers didn’t help out more. He wouldn’t criticize them, or try to explain. He would only say, “You do what you have to do.” Then he would smile.
But, in spite of the hardships, my father felt blessed when he secured a job working as an errand boy for Coughtry’s Blueprinting Company.
From the ripe old age of 13, his intelligence and positive, hard-working attitude impressed his boss, Mr.
Coughtry, who took him under his wing. Over the years, he taught my father everything there was to know about running blueprint machines, and my father became a respected employee and well-loved story-keeper for the small company.
When Mr. Coughtry died, he repaid my father for his loyalty, his hard work and his friendship by bequeathing him several thousand dollars; enough to buy a beautiful piece of property and have a modest home built for his family—me and my mom. For my father that plot of land and small redwood ranch was as glorious as the Ponderosa. He was immensely proud of it, but never forgot that it was his, in great part, through someone else’s generosity.
Any story about Mr. Coughtry, and there were many, was a story about gratitude.
Many of my father’s lessons were profound — what is truly important always lies beneath the surface; others were just practical — if you take the road less traveled, bring toilet paper. But all the lessons were memorable because my father knew the power of story.
Being of Irish descent, with roots in County Cork, sure’n it put the blarney in his veins, but, more than that, my father possessed a deep wisdom and ability to lead others toward transformation. Though a prolific reader, he knew that information doesn’t change people; stories do—stories filled with images, analogies and symbols, and the truths that lay beneath them all.
My father had a different way of “seeing” the world. He was in touch with his imagination; a guide which Victorian writer George MacDonald referred to as, “the light lit within us by God himself through his Holy Spirit.” Looking back on all the things my father taught me, I can only believe those words to be true.
“All things are possible with God,” he would remind me, especially on those nights when he sat on the edge of my bed and opened a large and beautifully illustrated book of Old Testament stories for children.
“Did I ever tell you the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego …”[[In-content Ad]]
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Many years ago, soon after I began writing this column regularly, a priest acquaintance was walking past my table at a social gathering. He leaned over and whispered, “What are you going to write about when you run out of things your father taught you?” That was 13 years and 500 hundred columns ago, and I’m still not worried about running out of stories to write.
One of the most important things my father taught me is that every day, every experience, brings valuable lessons if you are present enough— in heart, soul and mind—to embrace them. He learned that from his Father, who was there to comfort a fatherless child.
You see, his human father was murdered when my father was just a little boy of seven. His dad’s body was found floating in the Hudson River. I can’t imagine what would have prompted someone to kill this simple man who dug graves for a living, but when my father shared that story with me he reminded me that violence doesn’t need a reason.
I guess my dad’s life was hard by today’s standards, but you’d never know it by his positive outlook or his easy-going, joyful demeanor. He was a whistler. There was always a happy tune on his lips in spite of the fact that he grew up under the shadow of his father’s violent death. Ultimately, financial strains forced him to quit school while in eighth grade to support his mother. I would question him about why his older brothers didn’t help out more. He wouldn’t criticize them, or try to explain. He would only say, “You do what you have to do.” Then he would smile.
But, in spite of the hardships, my father felt blessed when he secured a job working as an errand boy for Coughtry’s Blueprinting Company.
From the ripe old age of 13, his intelligence and positive, hard-working attitude impressed his boss, Mr.
Coughtry, who took him under his wing. Over the years, he taught my father everything there was to know about running blueprint machines, and my father became a respected employee and well-loved story-keeper for the small company.
When Mr. Coughtry died, he repaid my father for his loyalty, his hard work and his friendship by bequeathing him several thousand dollars; enough to buy a beautiful piece of property and have a modest home built for his family—me and my mom. For my father that plot of land and small redwood ranch was as glorious as the Ponderosa. He was immensely proud of it, but never forgot that it was his, in great part, through someone else’s generosity.
Any story about Mr. Coughtry, and there were many, was a story about gratitude.
Many of my father’s lessons were profound — what is truly important always lies beneath the surface; others were just practical — if you take the road less traveled, bring toilet paper. But all the lessons were memorable because my father knew the power of story.
Being of Irish descent, with roots in County Cork, sure’n it put the blarney in his veins, but, more than that, my father possessed a deep wisdom and ability to lead others toward transformation. Though a prolific reader, he knew that information doesn’t change people; stories do—stories filled with images, analogies and symbols, and the truths that lay beneath them all.
My father had a different way of “seeing” the world. He was in touch with his imagination; a guide which Victorian writer George MacDonald referred to as, “the light lit within us by God himself through his Holy Spirit.” Looking back on all the things my father taught me, I can only believe those words to be true.
“All things are possible with God,” he would remind me, especially on those nights when he sat on the edge of my bed and opened a large and beautifully illustrated book of Old Testament stories for children.
“Did I ever tell you the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego …”[[In-content Ad]]
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