Month: June 2018

June 20 marked twenty years since Dad died, on the Saturday before Father’s Day in 1998. That means he has been gone for 30% of my lifetime, a number I hope grows. That’s a long time to carry memories.

In recent days, a commercial on TV has had an unexpected affect on me. In the first scene, a boy about ten years old is dressing up, perhaps as did I for church. He stands in front of a mirror in the middle of trying to tie his necktie. He looks back at his dad and says, “I can do this, Dad.”

In another scene, we see the boy, now in puberty, his face covered with shaving cream, assuring his father with a hint of exasperation in his voice, “I got this, Dad.”

The boy is in his car preparing to drive off to college in a third scene. Yet again, he faces his dad and reassures him that he’s going to be fine.

In the final frame, the son, now preparing for his wedding, is standing at a mirror, tying his necktie. He spots his dad in the mirror, turns around, and asks his dad to help him tie the knot right.

“I thought you knew how to do this,” says the father, a bit surprised.

“Never as good as you did, Dad. That’s for all your help.”

The ad rings true. As sons, our job growing up was to break away from our fathers to become confident adults, able to do the tasks present in our daily lives. Often the process included trial and error—it took me several attempts to tie a Windsor knot correctly—but the default position as a kid was nearly always “I can do it myself.”

Then, when we are grown up, we recognize dad’s impact, positive or negative.

Over the years in schools, Judy and I cautioned parents of children just entering teenage that, in the eyes of their offspring, the parents would become dumb, often illustrated by a frustrating “you just don’t understand” remark from the child. Then, about the time the child turns twenty, the parents begin to become smart again.

I am not sure, People of a Certain Age, how many of us turned to our parents at some point to say “never as good as you” or “thanks for all the help.” The point of the TV ad was not to stimulate reflection about our relationships with our parents or whether we had ever expressed gratitude to them. The ad does pay homage to the rhythm of life.

I was already thinking about fathers and sons before I first saw the ad, even before I realized that twenty years had raced by since Dad died. We get the publications of a school we once served where the current Head of School is a young man we hired at the school in the mid-1980s.

The school has thrived in the years since we were there, achieving academic acclaim and financial successes about which we could only dream back then. The head has been in the job for several years and has built on the successes of a long-term head of school with whom we worked in the 80s. Reading the magazine was pure joy; which of us would not feel elation that a place we had served had prospered.

As is the custom in such school publications, the school head wrote an introductory column. There were pictures of him with various alumni and donor groups sprinkled throughout. In the message and in the pictures, I saw his dad reflected.

I once told the head that his dad was a reason we interviewed him as a young man so many years ago. His dad was a man of high moral character, played out on an international stage, with a recognizable name that made me curious about the son when he contacted us for an interview.

The son made his own strong and positive impression that day. So we made a job for him, using his talents to fill needs we had. Later in his work with us, we asked his dad to speak with our students about his moral code. Dad was a hit.

Son is, too, I am sure. What he writes resonates with the character, intellect and compassion we found in his father. Son seems to have his dad’s drive to learn and listen, then to lead. Son might very well have said to his dad “thanks for all your help” and meant something more than assistance tying a necktie.

It has been twenty years. I cannot be sure whether or not I ever thanked my dad. He, too, was a man who cared about character, his and that of his children. The founding principles of Island Pacific Academy reflect his values. Maybe that constitutes saying thank you.

The stories of our lives have been different. Yet, in the mirror, I can see something of Dad, and that helps me to remember, the absence of neckties and shaving lotion notwithstanding.

Daniel E. White

June 25, 2018

I went to Pasadena to assemble IKEA bookcases for my sister. She turned 75 this year, and 75 years is a lot of time to collect stuff. Additionally, she took lots of boxes of memorabilia to her home when Mom died. The bookcases were presents from her daughter and us to help her store stuff until she could look it over.

Mom would have chuckled at the notion that I was going anywhere to build something. My brother got the construction gene in the family. But, I can read IKEA instructions now that I have figured out how to interpret all those arrows. When you sell in multiple countries, arrows eliminate the need for words. But I miss them.

My assembling adventure began at the world’s most noticeable store now that Tower Records has folded. Bright blue and bright yellow behemoth buildings dwarf everything nearby. Inside is stuff beyond imagination, all waiting to be assembled. We found three Billy Bookcases. A friendly man, whose job seemed to be helping People of a Certain Age get their cartons of pressed board into their cars, loaded ours into my rented SUV at 12:30 p.m.

By 5:00 p.m., there were three new 6 ½ foot tall white bookcases in her second bedroom, and no stuff in boxes on the floor anymore. What did people do before IKEA, when they had to measure and drill and fasten on their own? Maybe fewer bookcases got built by amateurs like me. I felt like a pro. I think the founder of IKEA counted on that feeling.

Once before, I put together an IKEA bookcase for my sister. It was a learning experience. I had not rented a big car but the friendly IKEA man that day eased my anxiety because he knew the back seats of my rental folded down, and the 80” box could angle in. It was my first exposure to IKEA assembly arrows and the process took me nearly two hours.

This time, three done in two hours. Old dogs can learn new tricks I was disappointed that she hadn’t needed a fourth one.

The next day we went to see a movie to celebrate her birthday and to dinner afterwards. She wanted to see Lives Well Lived. The filmmaker had asked her 100-year old grandmother some questions like “What does it take to live a life well-lived?” And “What are your thoughts about mortality?” And “What would you want younger people to know about being older?”

A light bulb lit. She filmed forty people answering those and other questions and produced a 90-minute film for movie theaters. The youngest person filmed was 73, the oldest 103 when the film was done (her grandmother). The average age was probably 87.

We didn’t hear any new thoughts about aging. The old truths were on display: “The only thing in life you can control is your own attitude;” “Keep moving;” “The best things in life aren’t things.”

There were notable threads. Several people had come to the U.S. because of the Nazis and one Japanese American woman had been incarcerated in a relocation camp. When they die, there will be no one left to remind us, from personal experience, of the danger of scapegoating people. Who will warn us about seeing all (fill in the blank) as bad and all (fill in the blanks) as good, instead of seeing individual human beings?

Many in the film had gravitated toward some form of artistic expression in old age. One woman said she was able to express herself now more with paint than with words. Another man fell in love with sculpture. A third person danced.

One of my retired friends has taken up watercolors. Another square dances. Another is learning a musical instrument. Perhaps retirement has unmasked the notion that doing something arty is frivolous, something for which active movers and shakers cannot spare the time. Perhaps we are just drawn to try new things.

The people in the film reflected a different sense of time, too. Several were critical of how younger people always seemed to be too busy, never having “enough time.” Ironic, that people nearer death feel free to take the time to enjoy themselves, try new things, be in the world and attuned to it.

All those interviewed had active relationships with other people, often a spouse, sometimes not. Judy and I treasure these words from Wallace Stegner’s Spectator Bird that speak to this point.

“It is something—it can be everything—to have found a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and find bugs and seeds for; one who will patch your bruises and straighten your ruffled feathers and mourn over your hurts when you accidentally fly into something you can’t handle.”

The folks in the movie would understand this. And my sister. And Mom and Dad, whose stuff now sits on newly assembled bookcases.

A life well lived. Some assembly required.

Daniel E. White

June 11, 2018