Father's Day: In Remembrance of Dads & Granddads

As far back as the eighteenth century, Whig parliamentarian and philosopher Edmund Burke -- “the father of modern conservatism” -- spoke to the indispensable worth to both the individual and the State of those intermediate institutions that stand between them. These institutions Burke called “little platoons,” and they include family, neighborhood, and other local communities of various sorts. It is from these non-political associations that the individual derives his or her identity, and it is through them that civic virtue is nurtured. Chief of importance to civilization itself is the “little platoon” of the family.

It is not unfair to say that conservatives have historically displayed a particularly acute awareness of the pivotal role that the institution of the family plays in the vast scheme of civilization, and it is conservatives who have been especially, even militantly, vigilant against innovative measures that potentially threaten its integrity. Given the zeal with which they seek to defend and strengthen the family, it would be of great surprise, to say the least, if conservatives didn’t enthusiastically support America’s decision to set aside two days of the year for the country to collectively express its appreciation, indeed, its reverence, for those who make the ultimate sacrifice for the cause of civilization. No offense to the military, but it not our soldiers to whom I refer, but our parents. Our mothers and fathers go beyond stopping the barbarians at the gate. In having children, all of whom are barbarians, parents welcome barbarians into the city and then labor inexhaustibly for years in order to remake them into civilized persons. As I have already said in so many words, parenting is a civilizing process.

This Sunday is Fathers’ Day, an occasion for the nation to underscore the value that it attributes to fatherhood, and an opportunity for children to spend at least one day in which to give thanks to the father figures in their lives. Unfortunately, I no longer have the privilege of being able to thank in person the men who have contributed so much to making me the man I am today. This being my lot, I would like to use the remainder of this column to remember this Fathers’ Day my father and maternal grandfather.

On November 27, 2006, just five days after I spent Thanksgiving at his home and one day before his 59th birthday, my father after whom I was named died of a massive heart attack. No one saw this coming. In fact, his death was so shocking that even now as I recount the event, over a year-and-a-half after its occurrence, it still seems surreal. Compounding the unreality of it all is the fact that I was extremely close with my father. Until the day he died -- long after I came to realize that he was a mere mortal with flaws and everything -- I maintained an admiration for my dad that fell just short of the idolatry that I practiced toward him as a child.

My dad’s personality was considerably different from my own. For sure, there are some respects in which we are very similar to one another, but there are many -- possibly more -- in which we differ markedly. In spite of these differences, our relationship was strong, and I am much in my dad’s debt for who I am today.

When I was about five or six years old, I encountered some neighborhood bullies. My dad purchased for me about thirty pounds of weights -- the barbell was roughly as long as my arm is now! -- and a small punching bag. Thus, what would develop into a life long love for weightlifting was born. He would show me which exercises to do, and would regularly wrestle with me (and my sister) at night before our baths. How I relished this time with my father. Before long, my bully problems vanished.

It is not that my dad was a violent person. He believed in using violence in self-defense, but for “tough guys,” punks, he had nothing but contempt. This is another attitude that he inspired in me. Criminals and troublemakers my father would call “gutter snipes” and “wastes of sperm.” Furthermore, while he influenced me to develop my body, he was at least equally concerned with me developing my mind. One night, while trying to help me with my math homework, my dad lost patience. The next morning, after he had gone to work, I found a letter that he had left for me. It was an apology, yet not an unqualified one. Dad explained that mental prowess is just as important as physical prowess. In fact, he believed it is more so. On his cubicle at work he had a sign that read: “Ignorance can be cured, but stupidity is forever!”

My father had a wicked sense of humor that can truly be said to be iconoclastic. He knew no sacred cows. He believed that the sharpness of a person’s sense of humor was proportionate to the sharpness of his or her wit generally. Throughout my life he continually reminded me of the importance of humor. Just smiling, dad held, was critical to navigating one’s way through life. As a teenager, I had quite the chip on my shoulder. Once, while at a store with my dad, I gave a clerk behind the counter some attitude. I don’t recall what I said, or if I even said much at all. I was deliberately unfriendly though. When we left, my dad said to me: “Try smiling every now and again. You would be surprised at how far it can get you.”

There is a seemingly boundless repertoire of fond memories of my father from which time and space sadly prevent me from drawing. Fishing and camping trips, holidays at his house, long conversations in the peace and tranquility of his back yard, Atlantic City on my 21st birthday, him teaching me how to drive, and the recollections of many other moments of events past remain eternally present in my heart.

It would be inappropriate for me to end this salute to Fathers’ Day without saying a word or two about another man who influenced me in no small measure, my maternal grandfather.