FATHERS AND SINS

It is official. My dad turned 100 years old. He is a centenarian, and I am rightly pissed about his big accomplishment. OMG! All the years of his harping about living a good clean life have, at last, put me into my place. Should I despise the old dude? I guess there is a fair amount of anger riding my back where dad is concerned. I must admit to it for the sake of my mental health. I am jealous and positively green with envy. “Father Knows Best”, for gosh sakes!

Him being his age makes me half way through my 70's. He is probably in better physical condition than me. I can see he has dental health that is far superior to my own. As if that were not bad enough, he broached the subject of dentition last week. He was just twisting the knife a bit. He has a cruel streak. I am pretty sure he was just twisting the blade.

"Boy, I went to the dentist t'other day . . ." , we were on the telephone, so I only imagined him wearing an exaggerated toothy grin.

"That dentist was astounded and he said to me. . ."

'Mr. A', you are some kind of miracle. What's in that water you drink, sir, and where can a poor old dentist like me get a bottle.'

"Yes, m'boy, me and him had a good laugh over that one. By the way, how are your choppers doing, son." So kind of him to ask, right? I changed the subject and would not answer.

Dad has reached the big one-double-oh, and my arse is in for it. He probably has 20 more years of criticism in him that he will aim exclusively in my direction. Undoubtedly, it is me who will kick the bucket first. I picture him at my wake, prefunctorily shaking his bald head while talking.

"I tried many times and in various ways to warn that boy about all the drinking, smoking and womanizing. A hard head makes a soft behind. Surely it does. The good Lord knows that it do," and he splays both hands before him in the direction of my cheap casket.

Of course 100 is the magic number, you know. It is an indication that you have been doing everything righteously, and the good Lord approves of you. There was much todo when his own dad got to 95 years. Mr. A. (everybody has called Dad, Mr. A. for decades now) was warning everybody not to think about grandfather lasting to the magic number of 100 years. Dad didn't want to jinx him and all that. But since everyone was hoping that grandpa would reach 100 years, they couldn't help but talk of it. A great honor would envelop the family name with a centenarian in the fold. Over dad’s objections, his sisters held a prayer warrior session to aid grandpa’s longevity effort. Alas, there was to be no centenarian good luck in my grand parent's generation. Aunt Jessie made 99.5 and mother dear made 98.7, but only dad has officially joined the centenarian's club.

Dad thinks and says that grandpa would have made it, but he had a bad car wreck (yes, he was still driving) at 95.25 years. He was not so badly hurt compared to another old guy who was riding to Wednesday evening deacon's meeting with him. The other guy got to heaven a little earlier than anticipated. It was an accident for sure, but grandpa Eugene took it to heart. It was tragic. Everybody said that, Grandpa Eugene willingly gave up the ghost because of a broken heart. And so it was that amid crying spells and some serious old-guy bemoanings of his fate that grandpa left this side of the river.

"Why, Lord, whyyyyyyyyyy. . . ," he would suddenly mewl, while stretched out on the sofa getting his health back.

Everybody felt sorry for him. Well, everybody except his good wife of 78 years.

"Hush, up, old man. I'm trying to get my stories." She would shush him loudly while unsteadily rising to her feet to crank the volume knob by hand. That's one thing you tried not to do -- bother mother dear during her afternoon soap operas.

I am a little rough on those long dead relatives. But for all the good they've done or wanted to do, it is they that gave birth to my self-righteous pappy. They were God fearing and stout folks who cared deeply about what was happening to the rest of the world. Mother dear would watch the 5:30 news and shake her head: just-a wondering what this world was coming to while making ummmmp, ummmmp, ummmmp noises in her chest and throat. When things were really bad she would say aloud, Lawd! Lawd! Lawd! These folks! these folk! these folks!

My grandparents are the one's that raised dad. They are guilty for all his failings or they get the credit for his success. It is their doing. Everything he knew to get started in life, he got from those two. Did I mention that he has been hugely successful in business. Yes sir, he's rich. By cracky! The old boy has it stuffed in mattresses. He certainly has made a lot of money in his and my life-time. Low estimates on his overall wealth is 10 million dollars.

Not much by your standards, but we just po' folks from the wrong side of town. A janitor business. A small fleet of trucks rolling at night. A crew that never exceeded 20 men. If you try to become worth 10 million (and that's the low guess) with those humble to embarrassing origins you will not find it easy. Cleaning toilets, bowing and scraping before mean spirited people whom did not want to pay his bill when it came due. The bottom line is he has made a lot of dough over his 100 years. More importantly, he was smart enough to keep it. That's what he got from the old folks. Save a little of everything you get is what they said and he did it.

Yes, yes, he told me on more than one occasion to save 10% of everything. His admonitions about saving was an impractical bit of advice in 1957, 58' Los Angeles. Trying to stretch a quarter per week was not possible, but chump that I was I tried and I tried again. I failed, week after deflating week. In the end I was a bad boy.

'Let's see. Should I go to the 15 cent Saturday movie or get a comic book? Maybe three nickel candy bars would do the trick. I could eat them one bite at a time and make them last until Tuesdayish.'

I think this is where the bitterness and emotional tension entered our doomed father/son relationship. His nutty ideas about what created character in a man were stereotypes of stereotypes -- hardly more than television service announcements. George Washington meets Horatio Alger meets George Bailey meets Abe Lincoln. I never wanted to be like him and I was determined to buck until he backed off. He never did and he carries on until this very day. It seems like he should know that the world has drastically changed since he was a scruffy little fella' trying hard to avoid starvation during the depression.

"Do an honest days work and don't worry about the pay. The Lord will provide for his sheep. You do your part and let the Good Lord do his." Eeeeeeh, gads! I heard it too often. It was during my first 15 years of life that I decided to get rid of the big guy in the sky too.

I was definitely not buying what those two were selling. My life would have been much easier if I had, but I just couldn't do it. Hard head and soft behind syndrome -- you think? The truth is that it didn't work for me. The world had changed and new rules needed to be acknowledged, especially in regard to recognizing authority figures. I know because I raised my kids differently. They are happy, spiritually healthy and genuinely caring people. I don't think either of them has a grudge in their perfect little bones; and boy, do they ever love their grandfather. Dad did what he knew to do and it worked astonishingly well for him. There it is. I admit it. Woooho!

The guy had nary a lick of high school before he was 40 years old, and he has been president of several Rotary Clubs along the Pacific Coast Highway including Malibu and the Pacific Palisades. He has presided over several branches of the NAACP, headed city beautification projects, sat on State draft boards and outwitted California politicians to obtain parks and recreation facilities for the little folks's community. He is quite a guy after all is said and done, and yet he and I have never gotten along. I am very sad to say it, because today I know that we never will.

He is a winner and he often tells me so.

"God takes care of me, boy. Everybody who has ever wished me ill has paid a price. As I look back, I can see how God was taking care of me all the way. Old Smitty stole my car wash rack, and came down with cancer shortly after that. Then Bill and John Johnson went in and under-bided all my jobs trying to run me out of business. Well they got theirs'. Bill's wife ran off with a preacher. Bill took to drinking like a fish, and him and John's business went belly up. It was a harsh but suitable comeuppance. God looks out for me, I'll tell you."

He has told these same stories for years now. Me and my sister listen. We eyeball each other and listen. We do it because, frankly, he has all the money. While he is telling me these things, I get the feeling that he is sending a poison missive my way. My hard life is of my own doing. As my dad he had nothing to do with what happened to me. To hear him tell of it he really tried to teach me right from wrong. That may or may not be true. I am not even certain that he feels that way; but he makes me suspect it and then I resent the ugly feelings that squeeze into the hole in my heart.

It doesn't matter much nowadays. I've lived through it and hopefully grown past it. I expect that so has he. These days we can talk for nearly 15 minutes before the conversation breaks down and we both know it is time to hang up the phone. I respect him, and he understands me. That's all we need to know about each other. Happy 100, old dude. Many, many, happy returns.