One man’s happiness

Father’s Day, and I’m sitting at my desk, worrying about all the dads who wanted to spend their day on the golf course. It’s almost as dark as night, and the thunder and rain have been constant all afternoon. When I napped, I had an anxious dog snuggled up next to me.

We went to early church—no wonder I’m sleepy—and afterwards had a delightful brunch, apparently Christian’s favorite meal. Now they have gone to Coppell to see his parents and pick up Jacob who spent the weekend there.

The internet is full of memories of fathers today, and most of them are being described as fun and crazy. Makes me think about my dad. He was never crazy but one of the most disciplined men I ever met. Fun? Only when you were old enough to appreciate his droll humor. Dad was Canadian and very much an Anglophile at heart. He liked order and routine, and Mom gave it to him.

I was his only child (a sister died at six months), though he raised my half-brother. Theirs was not always a meeting of the minds until John was old enough to appreciate Dad’s virtues and approach him as an adult. Dad was, among other things, a stickler for respect and table manners (the British version—I still want to switch my fork from the left, for cutting, to the right for eating—it drove him crazy, as did buttering your bread in the air. And elbows on the table? Never! No hats at the table either—perish the thought.).

But I got to thinking today, as I read about all these joyful fathers, whether or not my father was a happy man, and I concluded he was. Without boasting, I’ll say I know that I made him happy (except for the few major times I disappointed him). He was proud of me, as I was proud of him.

My mom made him happy. She ran what to his mind was the perfect household—meat and potatoes for dinner at six every night, served at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and linen napkins at every place. Anyone remember napkin rings? And she was a perfect intellectual match for him, being equally as well read. She acceded to his belief that women should not work outside the home, though I think she sometimes longed to. She compensated with volunteer activities.

I think of three happy places for my dad. He, an osteopathic physician, president of an osteopathic college, and administrator of the associated hospital, liked nothing better than to put on old, disreputable clothes and work in his garden. When I was growing up in Chicago, we had a beautiful garden in the empty lot which was part of our property. Dad was equally happy on our annual vacation to the Indiana Dunes, where we had a primitive cottage—no electricity, no indoor plumbing. You had to walk a mile to get to it, carrying your clothes and groceries. But with woods to the back of the cabin and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan to the front, it was a little bit of heaven. Food tasted better, you slept better, and a swim in the lake was the highlight of the day.

Mom and Dad retired to North Carolina, the foothills of the Smokies where they had honeymooned, and Dad once again had a glorious garden. Mom had fresh roses on her dining table every day (the linen cloth had gone the way of all good things). Dad would come in from the garden, shower and put on a fresh shirt, and they’d have a proper British tea, with milk of course, never cream, and always some kind of biscuit.

Today it sounds like an old-fashioned life and maybe even by the sixties and seventies, it was. But looking back, I would say my dad was a happy man. He had professional success, a family he loved, and life that just suited him. Not many of us can say that.

How are your table manners?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been with all my grandkids fairly recently, but table manners are on my mind. We even talked about it in Tomball, and I was pleased that Colin is quick to praise his kids’ manners. Kegan caught me with elbows on the table the first night. In my defense, I had finished eating, but his reprimand started an ongoing thing, and I caught all of them with elbows on the table at one time or another.

I was raised by a father who was a strict disciplinarian when it came to the dinner table. None of this coming home and getting into comfortable clothes for him. He appeared at the table in a white shirt and tie, and my mother usually showered and put on a fresh dress for dinner. We ate on a white linen tablecloth, with linen napkins—and napkins rings so the napkins could be re-used. Napkin rings are now a thing of the past.

Dad was Canadian, and his concept of manners was British. Elbow on the table were a big no, of course, but other things were more difficult. “Do not butter your bread in the air. Put it on your plate to butter it.” Have you tried that? Awkward. The fork was another awkward thing that caused me grief. Most Americans cut food with the knife in the right hand and the fork in the left; then they switch the fork to the right to take a bite (if you’re left-handed none of this applies). Not so Europeans—no switching that fork to the right hand.

My brother, who rebelled against much of our upbringing, really bought the manners thing, and he enforced it with his kids and, at weekly family dinners, with mine. The result is they definitely know what fork to use. And, mostly, they have passed it on to their kids. Still, a couple of things bother me.

One is that excuse, “It’s just family.” Dad preached (he was really a preacher’s kid) that manners were to make other people comfortable dining with you and therefore, you used your best manners with your family, because they are the people that matter most.

Some of the boys in my family want to wear gimme caps to dinner—not at my table. I have a vision of my father writhing in agony at the thought. And cell phones? Dad never had to deal with that, but there’s no doubt what he would have thought.

Grazing is another thing that really bothers me. When I was a kid, we had a snack when we came home from school, but we could not eat after 4:30 because coming to the dinner table and saying, “I’m not hungry—I just ate,” was not tolerated. We dined together as a family—and no TV on.

Today a lot of kids seem to graze constantly, standing before cupboards and refrigerators, surveying the contents, looking for the next thing to eat. I think it’s born out of boredom—makes me want to suggest a good book--and is frankly an unhealthy habit. Even worse is the habit of picking at food out of the pan in the kitchen—my kids know if they’re guilty. When I used to fix Sunday dinner for fifteen to twenty, I always worried about there being enough, and to find people picking away at the food while it was still in the kitchen made me ballistic. Besides, I’m sure it’s not sanitary. Today, we have some who snatch bacon as quickly as it can be fried. Christian often fries the bacon for big family breakfasts, and he considers it a self-defeating task because it gets eaten as fast as he can fry it.

And finally, there’s consideration at the table. We had link sausages for Christmas breakfast and a fuss was made of how much Morgan loves them. But she only took two. When everyone had some, she took one more—but she left several in the bowl in case others wanted seconds. That’s consideration—and it matters most with family.

To me, good table manners are a password to advancement in the world—if you have them and practice them, you can go anywhere; if you don’t practice them, you’re stuck wherever you are. And family is the best place to start.

Okay, rant and lecture over. Thanks for hearing me out. I expect rebuttals from some of my kids. Will keep you posted.