February 28, 2011 by David Gillaspie
Did your dad share his dreams?
Did he share them or implant them?
That’s familiar territory for most Baby Boomers.
Then they realize they were implanted.
At first you think ‘if I live his dreams, does that mean not living mine?’
It even sounds like a therapy question. You eventually don’t care because you know you’ll never measure up either way.
It’s an important lesson to learn.
My Dad went from backwoods farm boy to corporate representative in two easy lessons.
Things happened in between, like me being born, but the biggies were,
1. The Korean War and,
2. College, the first in his family to graduate.
He got no dad-credit for either one. His dad refused to go to the graduation. The theory was anyone going to school past eighth grade was just afraid to work.
My guess is Grandpa got to eighth grade in a logging-camp school and started setting chokers the next day. Somewhere between then and my Dad’s nineteenth birthday Grandpa broke his back in the woods, couldn’t get into WWII, and started providing distilled refreshments.
The dream Grandpa implanted in my Dad had to involve chainsaws and bootlegging. My old man knew his way around a chainsaw like nobody’s business, but he wore a jacket and tie for his regular work.
He didn’t drive thunder road, he stuck to Hwy 101.
He got married and moved his small town dream to another small town and another dream, North Bend, Oregon. This time he shared it with his family.
His dream was to quit the business world and get his school teacher card. He’d teach high school and coach sports when he turned forty.
That’s a dream some act on. He didn’t.
He said he’d quit smoking, too.
Somewhere between age 40 and a quintuple by-pass, he and my Mom divorced. The new wife made sure he always had a cigarette in his hand later in life when he couldn’t light his own. They lived five miles out on a dirt road near a town three hundred miles away.
That was their dream, and another story.
Do dads, your dad, my dad, all dad’s around the world, say things just to keep ideas bouncing around?
Whether they mean what they say or not, a good idea is a good idea.
Would my dad do well in the classroom?
As well as any other former Marine drill instructor who still wore spit-shined shoes with inch and a half soles.
In other words, he would have been just what every district needed and I would have been THAT teacher’s kid.
Dear Dad, it would have been an honor.
That’s every father’s dream eternal and I’m shining my shoes for inspection.
By David Gillaspie