My father was the hardest working person I have ever known. Second place is distant. Third is out of sight. His father hadn’t been much of a provider to him, his three sisters, and mother, so at a very early age my father was providing for his very poor family in northeast Mississippi. Guiding a plow, barefoot, behind a pair of mules at age ten leaves marks. My father sure had a bunch of marks. Rather than time smoothing them, the marks provided my father with direction. He was justifiably proud of his ability to overcome an extremely humble beginning, never graduating from high school, receiving practically no support from family. He made himself into a master tool and die maker. He married and had three kids. They moved to Memphis to find work, living on what was then outside the city limits but is now miles inside. My mother became a special education teacher. His daughter had cerebral palsy but was smart, funny, and our mother’s best friend. His two sons worked hard, did well in school, and had very productive careers. He should have been happy.
This essay isn’t about my father’s self-destructive behaviors (alcohol, smoking, anger, etc.). It isn’t about my mother’s much too early death that left him alone. This essay is about me coming to grips with my father’s legacy…or, as I like to call it, “Barney’s gift.” Just for some insight into my experience growing up, I called my parents by their first names at age ten and never again addressed them as mom or dad…think about that for a minute…imagine doing that in your family. Yep.
My older brother Rubel has made peace with our father and very much would like for me to be able to do so. It’s not that I couldn’t, I suppose, it’s that I choose not to. He left too many marks on my life. I can forgive bad decisions, but I do not forgive lost years. I even quit hoping years before his death. So, if I could see him today, I would ask him to explain just what he had been thinking all those years. I’m at peace that I will probably never make peace with my father. And that should have been the end of the conversation, but it isn’t.
The teaching profession keeps folks in it humble. Explaining why is the subject for a bunch of essays. Having said that, I had a very successful 30-year career. I still correspond with many of my students from those years (even back when I had hair on my head and cartilage in my knees). But, frankly, I’ve been pretty successful at whatever I’ve done. I’m smart and work hard, with working hard being the key. And I owe most of this success to my father.
This essay is not meant to ignore my mother’s value in my life, or for that matter, my brother, sister, son, friends, and most importantly my wife. This is about my realization of just what my debt is to my father. He pushed us to an extreme level of work; break you down kind of work, all day dead work. This went on my entire childhood. He required grown man work from kids at the expense of much of our childhood. He did it with a surprisingly effective blend of off the charts expectations and often little or no instruction. We were just expected to get the job done. Or else. Quite honestly, the only memories of happiness in my father I recall are when the three of us were so exhausted after a day of backbreaking work we could hardly walk back to the truck. Ironically, most of the work we did never paid for itself, but that is a topic for another essay. I am certain my father’s purpose was NOT to produce hardworking, successful sons. He just needed cheap labor, and, boy, were we!
I have a favorite saying: “you can’t have it both ways.” For example, you can’t care about the feelings of others and be invulnerable. So, I have learned as I have aged just how much I owe my father for the almost absolute belief in my ability to get a job done. I call it “grabbing your end and going.” The analogy is understandable if you’ve ever done work that requires sharing a load with someone. It fits in almost any setting even if the weight is less about pounds and more about due dates and complexity. A lot of my former students would probably say that I “shared” Barney’s gift with them. I pushed continually, challenging them to get the job done. I’m like that on everything. A hike with me is a job to get done---no time for stopping for views or smelling roses. Anything worth doing is worth doing in a hurry!
I wish my father had found a way of spending some recreational time with us. I wish he had aimed his work habits at some more “fun” activities. I wish he could have found happiness in less physically demanding activities. I wish he could have made peace with some of the demons haunting him. I wish we could have it both ways.
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