Fathers

Mark Twain once said that “it’s a wise child who knows its father, and an unusual one who unreservedly approves of him.” I’m here standing before you today to unequivocally state that I was neither wise nor unusual as a child. Oh, I knew who my father was all right. He was the red-haired state police officer who left in the morning and came home every evening to laugh and joke and tell stories, and make candy, and play cards and other games. He led us on vacations to the seashore, which he relished dearly. He was steady and constant. He was always there.

But when I was young, I didn’t know him. Really know him. And I certainly didn’t “unreservedly approve of him.” I loved him in the general sense that a child is capable of at that age. I appreciated his giving and his presence. I relied upon him for support, both emotionally and materially. But it wasn’t until I was an adult that I really got to know and appreciate my father – not at the father-son level; but as a friend and mentor. Mark Twain also wrote that when he was a boy of fourteen, his father was so ignorant he could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when he got to be twenty-one, Twain was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. That was the way I was as a child. That was a lot of us, as children, I think. Maybe we didn’t appreciate our fathers within the specific time frame in which Mark Twain experienced his awakening. For some of us, (if at all) we may have come to appreciate our father when we were 17, or 28, or 56, or 81, or long after our father was gone. Although I’m sure that I did many times as a child, I don’t remember telling my father I loved him and hugging him, and actually sitting down and talking to him as a friend and adult until I was in my late 20s. That’s when I started to “unreservedly approve of” my father.

Now, when I say “father,” it doesn’t necessarily have to mean our biological father that we relate to as a “father” or “dad” or “daddy” or “pop.” I have four fathers – not biological fathers . . . that would be a record. I had four men who guided me, and prompted me, and cajoled me, and kicked me (not literally), and pushed me into adulthood. From my biological father, my “dad,” I received the gifts of patience, and gentleness, and steadiness, and an appreciation of quiet . . . and an ability not to “sweat the small stuff,” as my dad would say. From my uncle, Uncle Gene, I received the gifts of love of nature, and insightfulness, and spirituality . . . and the appreciation of a fine cigar. My grandfather, my “Poppy,” gave me the gifts of integrity, and respect of others, and personal pride and belief in oneself, the ability to call things as I see them . . . and a receding hairline. I swear that I spent most of my life through my high school years with my best friend. And it was through my best friend’s father – my fourth father, Mr. Cioffi – that I came to value honesty, and forthrightness, and laughter, and family . . . and the New York Yankees.

All of these fathers ended up giving a good part of themselves to me. What you see standing before you today is, in large measure, an amalgamation of the gifts of those gracious, good people. And in the end, that’s what fatherhood is all about . . . giving – unreservedly, unendingly, undeniably.

When my dad was dying of cancer, I went to visit him at home one evening. Just my Mom and Dad and I were there. I stayed for awhile. My father had brain cancer and wasn’t speaking much by that point. He wasn’t moving at all, being confined to bed. When it came time to leave, I whispered goodbye to my Dad; squeezed his shoulder and kissed his cheek. I told him I loved him. He struggled to whisper back “I love you, too.” Those were the last four words my dad ever spoke. A few weeks later he died, but he never spoke another word again. What an honor to be a child of that man, who gave to me as long as he could – until his very last words.

I have one last Mark Twain quote to share today. Mark Twain wrote, “a distinguished man should be as particular about his last words as he is about his last breath. He should write them out on a slip of paper . . . He should never leave such a thing to the last hour of his life, and trust to an intellectual spurt at the last moment to enable him to say something smart with his last gasp and then be launched into eternity with grandeur.” My father neither wrote down his last words ahead of time nor relied upon an intellectual spurt to be launched into eternity with the grandeur he was due. He relied upon that essential aspect that defined him as a father; that defined all four of my fathers as fathers; that sets apart all fathers as fathers – he relied upon his love for his child. May we and all of our children be blessed with such people of love in our lives.