by Mike O'Mary
While we sat there, we also got to watch the comings and goings of various other people. I saw a number of parents coming to pick up their kids. These were parents who for one reason or another had not been able to come to the program that afternoon, and as each one passed by, I was reminded how fortunate I was to have been able to see the Christmas program.
As the kids filed out one-by-one with their parents, the day-care teachers also bundled up and prepared to venture out into the snow storm. I seldom said more than hello to anyone other than Miss Adele and Miss Kelly, the two women who took care of my daughter’s class. But even though I didn’t know any of the other teachers very well, not a single one passed without asking what was wrong. And upon hearing the saga of the lost keys, each teacher in turn offered us a ride home. I politely explained that my wife was on the way, and with that, each teacher wished us a merry Christmas, smiled, and headed out into the cold.
When my wife finally got there, my daughter and I got our coats on, grabbed all our stuff, and then ran out to the nice warm car. On the way home, we stopped and used my wife’s extra keys to get my car and drive it home.
Overall, we were slightly inconvenienced, but in retrospect, I feel the lost keys were a blessing. The gym full of preschoolers singing Christmas carols was special in and of itself, but I had the added pleasure of sitting alone with my daughter for half an hour... of listening to her sing Christmas carols while nice people came and went... of learning that so many people were willing to help us when we were stranded... and of doing all of this knowing that there was someone out there who cared enough about us to leave work on a moment’s notice to come and get us in a snow storm.
I wouldn’t wish lost car keys on anybody—especially not in a snow storm. But sometimes it takes something like that to make you slow down and count your blessings.
Postscript: A week later, the weather turned unseasonably warm and the snow melted, so my daughter and I walked over to the day care center to look for my keys. Four-year-olds are good at finding things, probably because they’re closer to the ground. And sure enough, my daughter found my keys. Another blessing? Luck? Either way, I was a pretty happy guy.
Family Men
Over the last few years, I have been fortunate enough to get to know a man named Bud Toohey.
Bud’s real name is Clarence. His friends call him “Bud.” To his family, he is simply “Pop.”
I like Bud because he is a family man. We need more family men.
Bud came of age at a good time. The Great Depression was over. World War II had not yet started. He met and married a beautiful Penn State graduate named Kay, and the young couple settled down near Meadville in northwest Pennsylvania.
Bud did not have a lot of money, but he borrowed enough to start his own business. He turned out to be a very good businessman. During the 1940s and 1950s, he built up a profitable tool and die company. He and Kay also had two beautiful daughters along the way. Things were going well for Bud.
Over the years, Bud provided well for his family. He gave them a good home, took them on vacations, made sure they were fed and clothed and well educated.
He was also able to do the things he liked to do—including attending Shriner conventions and playing golf. He eventually sent both his daughters off to Slippery Rock State Teachers College where they each met young men. That’s when things started going wrong for Bud. (Or so he thought at the time.)
The first inkling that things were not going his way occurred when Bud’s oldest daughter, Kathleen, brought home a cocky young athlete named Jerry.
Now I must acknowledge up front that, in Bud’s opinion, very few young men, if any, would have been good enough for his daughter. And this Jerry kid had a number of marks against him to boot.
First of all, Jerry was Catholic. Bud and his family were Methodists and, on a more personal level, Bud just plain hated Catholics.
Second, Jerry was of eastern European stock—Czech to be exact—and while Bud had nothing in particular against eastern Europeans, he had always assumed that if he had to see the Toohey girls marry, it would at least be to fine Irish lads.
Finally, though not a millionaire, Bud was fairly well-to-do by this time. Neither Jerry nor his family had much money, and the thought may have crossed Bud’s mind that the kid had an eye on Bud’s money.
Despite these strikes against him, Jerry let it be known that he intended to marry Kathleen. Bud was appalled, and throughout the entire courtship of his daughter by this upstart kid, Bud never showed any sign of acceptance or approval. Which only made Jerry that much more determined.
Finally, without Bud’s approval or acceptance, Jerry married Kathleen. Bud might have softened his stance and accepted his new son-in-law after a reasonable grieving period, but the arrival of a baby girl slightly less than nine months later only convinced Bud that his new son-in-law was no good.
Family lore has it that Bud did not speak to Jerry for the next three or four years. During that time, Jerry and Kathleen had two more children—two boys—and family lore also has it that, were it not for the exceptional beauty and grace of that first baby girl, Bud might have had nothing at all to do with Jerry or Kathleen.
Bud’s other daughter, Sheila, did not fare any better in Bud’s eyes. She also met her husband, Larry, at Slippery Rock. Also a Catholic. Also eastern European (Polish). Sheila and Larry married a few years after Kathleen and Jerry.
None of this made Bud very happy, but gradually, he began to accept things as they were. He came to enjoy the company of his daughters again. He liked his grandchildren, too. But he could still do without his two sons-in-law.
Although it would be many years before he would greet either son-in-law with open arms, Bud saw from the start that Jerry was working hard to provide for his family—first as a school teacher, then as a restaurant manager, then as a salesman. Larry was also a hard worker. If nothing else, Bud could appreciate hard work.
Bud was impressed enough that, when he came across a good idea for a new business, he suggested it to Jerry and Larry and loaned them the money to get started.
To make a long story short, that loan paid off in spades. Jerry turned out to be an exceptional salesman, Larry ran things at the plant, and together they turned that initial loan from Bud into a multi-million dollar business.
Bud himself retired a wealthy man, but shortly after his retirement, his health began to fail. He had to give up his tool and die business. His wife, Kay, always active and capable throughout her life, took care of him at home—until she unexpectedly died of a heart attack in 1983.
After the death of Kay, Bud’s daughters moved Bud to a nursing home near them. Of course, nursing homes are expensive, and Bud’s money eventually ran out. But don’t worry about Bud. As I said, that loan paid off. Those eastern European, Catholic boys are now taking care of Bud. Things came full circle.
Things turned out all right for Bud because although he didn’t like his new sons-in-law at first, he still did the right thing: he provided for his family. And although Jerry did not like the way he was treated early on, he was not spiteful later in life.
None of this has been lost on me. In this age of easy divorce and broken homes and abandoned children, one thing is clear: Family is more important than ever. You take care of them first. No matter what.
Because Bud and Jerry knew that, things have turned out quite well for me. You see, I married Jerry’s daughter. And although Jerry was not crazy about me at first, he has since gone out of his way to treat me as one of his own sons. I’d like to think it’s because I’m such a great guy, but more likely, it’s because he remembers how he was treated by his father-in-law.
And the story goes on. I now have a daughter. My number one goal is to take care of her. My number two goal is to let her go when she’s ready to go. If I happen not to like her choice for a husband—and I must acknowledge up front that, in my opinion, very few men, if any, will be good enough for my daughter—at least I’ll know
how to act. I’ve seen two good, solid family men in action.
Bud is in his eighties now. Sometimes he forgets things. He has his good days and his bad days. He moved out of the nursing home and now lives with his nurse in a condo that Jerry and Larry bought for him.
The condo is on a golf course, and in the summer, when Jerry is playing a round of golf, he’ll drop in on Bud to say hello. Bud is always glad to see him.
On one occasion, Jerry dropped in, got a cold drink, and stayed to joke around with Bud for a while. They had a good time, but eventually, Jerry had to get back to his golf game.
After Jerry left, Bud turned to his nurse and asked, “Who was that kid?” Bud’s nurse told him that “kid” was his son-in-law. Bud smiled and said, “He’s all right.”
As I said, Bud forgets things sometimes. He has his good days and his bad days. But you can bet on one thing: whenever his sons-in-law drop by these days, Bud considers it a good day.
Kid Talk
My wife needed some time to do some work one weekend, so I took my daughter to see a movie. On the way out of the theater, we ran into one of my daughter’s little friends from day care. Their conversation was one of the most charming things I have ever heard.
My daughter: “Hi, Megan.”
Megan: “Hi, Kathleen.”
Kathleen: “I saw you watching the movie, Megan.”
Megan: “I know.”
They smiled at each other for a moment.
“I would like a hug,” said Megan.
“Okay,” said Kathleen.
They hugged.
“You’re my best friend, Megan,” said Kathleen.
“You’re my best friend, too,” said Megan.
After that, the two little friends parted ways, promising to see each other at day care the next day.
As I said, it was a perfectly charming little exchange. Sure, my rendition of the encounter sounds like the script for an episode of the Smurfs or the Care Bears, but the thing that struck me about my daughter and her friend was their sincerity and lack of inhibition.
Compare their encounter to the subplot that was being played out between Megan’s mother and me as we watched and waited for our daughters.
While Kathleen and Megan greeted each other, I looked at Megan’s mother and smiled. She gave me a slight grimace of recognition (we had seen each other coming and going at the day care center), then she quickly turned her attention back to the girls.
Kathleen and Megan talked about seeing each other in the movie theatre. I told Megan’s mother that I thought it was a good movie. She was cordial. “The kids seemed to like it,” she said.
Kathleen and Megan told each other that they are best friends.
“Isn’t that cute,” I said. Megan’s mother responded by asking where Kathleen’s mother was—in a tone that suggested I left my wife at home and brought my daughter to see “101 Dalmatians” as part of some sinister plot to seduce Mrs. Megan.
Kathleen and Megan hugged. I watched them and got a warm feeling. I looked up at Megan’s mother. She had a look on her face that said, “Don’t even think about it, buster.” At the same time, she was fumbling around in her purse, presumably for her car keys, but it occurred to me that she may also have been going for the mace—just in case.
Of course, Mrs. Megan need not have been concerned. As a fellow 20th Century adult, I was every bit as inhibited as she was.
But our children have no problems socializing. My daughter not only tells Megan that they are best friends, she tells my wife and me that we are her best friends as well. It has not yet occurred to her that by definition, a person can have only one “best” friend. And who am I to straighten her out on the subject? In fact, listening to Kathleen and Megan has caused me to re-examine the logic behind having one “best” friend.
Apparently, it’s a rather arbitrary thing governed by semantics and the limitations of our language. Theoretically, we can have any number of “good” friends, perhaps another select group who could be called our “better” friends, and ultimately, one person who is our “best” friend. And while the “good-better-best” method may have worked fine as a marketing tool for Sears & Roebuck, it definitely has its limitations when applied to friendship. As near as I can tell, there is nothing, bar proper grammar, to prevent a person from having more than one “best” friend, and I would submit that proper grammar is insufficient grounds for forcing my daughter to choose between Daddy, Mommy, or Megan as her “best” friend.
I’m sure that Mrs. Megan and I and most other adults had more than one best friend at some point early in our lives. Somewhere along the way, our inhibitions took over, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. I believe that one of the reasons we have children on this planet is to show adults the way back to expressing our emotions.
It’s worked on this adult. After being told by my daughter that I am her best friend, and after returning the compliment a number of times, I have found those words easier to say. Also, by witnessing her liberal use of the phrase—to me, Mommy, Megan, Grandma, Grandpa, her teachers, and, of course, her best friends—I have realized that I am also empowered to tell as many people as I like that they are my best friends. And I have especially realized that I should say those words to my best friends.
I recently did just that. I told John, my best friend out in Idaho, that he is, in fact, my best friend. I always knew that, and I assumed he did. But when he later told me how much it meant to him that I would tell him such a thing, I realized that we should not take such knowledge for granted.
I’ve also learned that in most cases, if you want a hug, all you’ve got to do is ask for it. Unless, of course, you are talking to Mrs. Megan. This, I chose to try out with my wife. And to my great delight and pleasure, I got exactly what I asked for: a hug. No strings attached. What a deal.
So if you’d like to have some fun, let your kids show you the way. Call your best friend and say, “You’re my best friend.” If it feels good—and I think it will—call another best friend and repeat the process.
And when you run out of best friends to call, ask your spouse or your parent or your kid for a hug. If at first they go for the mace, be patient. Old habits are hard to break. But somewhere inside each of us, you can be sure there’s a kid who wouldn’t mind a hug.
A Note From My Sister
I want to tell you about something very personal. It’s about a note I received from my youngest sister one Christmas. It made me very happy when I received it, but it also made me cry. So I debated for a long time whether I should show it to anybody. And finally, for a number reasons, I decided that I should tell other people about it.
I’ll show you the note in a minute, but first, I have to tell you a few things about me and my sister and our family.
Our parents got divorced when I was ten. My youngest sister, Sharon, would have been two. Sharon and I, along with the rest of our brothers and sisters, stayed with our mother. Our father moved to another part of Louisville for a while, remarried, and eventually moved away to Massachusetts.
After a few of years of trying, Mom finally acknowledged that she could not raise seven kids on her own. My brothers and sisters—including Sharon—were put in an orphanage. By that time, I was fourteen and I had a part-time job, so Mom kept me home with her.
Now before you go feeling sorry for me and saying, “What a noble little boy, taking a job at fourteen to help his mother pay the bills,” you need to know that I was not helping with the bills—although I did buy some of my own clothes. But overall, I didn’t make that much money. And what I did make, I spent on myself.
So I wasn’t at home to help pay the bills. When you get right down to it, I think Mom kept me at home so she wouldn’t be lonely.
Unfortunately, I was not the greatest of companions. In fact, I was nothing but trouble. I skipped school, snuck out late at night with my friends, went to beer parties, and generally got into a lot of trouble. The culminating event came shortly before my fift
eenth birthday when I skipped school one day, stole the keys to Mom’s car, took some friends for a joy ride, and ended up wrecking the car.
After that, there were lots of talks about what to do with me. My Mom talked to me. My uncle talked to me. Our priest talked to me. And, of course, my probation officer talked to me. (I got a probation officer after I got caught shoplifting earlier that same year.) Everybody finally decided that the best thing to do was to have me go live with my father in the hope that he would provide more discipline.
The result for Sharon and me, though, was that due to the difference in our ages, our parents’ divorce, and my juvenile delinquency, we never had a chance to get to know each other very well.
That bothered me a lot when I was growing up. Especially after I moved away and began to realize how important family is. And I felt guilty. Guilty because my brothers and sisters spent several years in an orphanage, and I did not have to. And guilty because I had abused that privilege—so much so that I further broke up our already broken home.
I went back to Louisville about once a year to visit while I was living with my father, and I went back more often after I was out on my own. But I was always very self-conscious when I went back. I had much in common with the divorced father who comes back and tries to force everything into what has commonly come to be known as “quality time.” But unlike the tentative, divorced father, I did not have to deal with children who withheld their affection because they resented me leaving them. To my knowledge, my brothers and sisters never blamed me for anything that had happened in our family. Quite the contrary. They always seemed glad to see me, and they never held back. Still, I always felt that I needed to make things up to them, so I was always trying, sometimes awkwardly, to do something special whenever I visited.
My brothers and sisters are all grown up now. Sharon is married and has her own life: husband, daughter, son, career, the works. A lot of years have gone by. And all those years, I never knew what my brothers and sisters thought, if anything, of me and my visits and my efforts to do something special when I visited. Until I got this note from my little sister one Christmas: