As the fifth child of six, my dad (nicknamed “Payshe”) came pretty far down in his pa’s priorities. But the day my dad got so sick, Minnie wasn’t willing to accept Sam’s attitude.
Minnie said to Sam, “Your son Payshe is so sick, he might die. You have to go to him. He’ll do anything to please you. Help him know you want him to live!”
Somewhat disgruntled, perhaps, Sam came into the bedroom where my dad and his two brothers slept. Sam saw that my dad’s bed had been moved near the window. Minnie explained, “He’s so hot from the fever. He likes the cold air from the window.”
Sam stood next to the bed and said to my dad, “I hear you're real sick.”
My dad, nearly delirious, could scarcely respond. After a glance at Minnie, Sam went on to say, “Well, I've got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny, saying, “I am going to give you this.”
In 1918, for a son of immigrants, a penny was a fortune! My dad had never owned a penny of his own. Somewhere in his delirium, my dad began to focus on his pa.
A Pretty Penny
Sam smiled, then pressed the penny against the window pane next to the bed. The single-pane glass was frosted with the cold. With his index finger, Sam pressed the penny tightly against the frost on the window. In a short time, the warmth from Sam’s finger warmed the copper penny until the bit of ice under it melted just a little.
When Sam took his finger away, the ice froze again and the penny stayed attached to the window.
“Payshe,” his pa said, “every night that you're sick, I'm going to give you another penny!” As weak as he was, my dad smiled.
Days later, when there were eight pennies on the window, my dad’s fever broke. For the first time in all these days, Minnie smiled broadly at her husband.
Further Down the River of Life
This childhood experience of my father’s is my connection to the flu pandemic that he survived. But this episode also connects me to key parts of my life.
You see, the eight pennies were a gesture that was never repeated. Until my dad was grown, he never got that much attention from his Pa again. Yet those eight days made my dad miss that connection with his father—even more than when he’d never yet felt close to Sam.
In time, my dad made a promise to himself:
“When I grow up and become a dad myself,” he thought, “I will not be like my pa. I will know my children. I will be pleased with them. I will never have to be called to their deathbed to show them, at last, that I care about them. My children will know in their bones that I cherish them.”
Growing Up with the Opposite
My dad worked two jobs, so he wasn't home very much. But when he came home late at night he was always glad to see me. He always thought I was the smartest thing he’d ever seen.
He told me stories he loved. He also listened stories out of me; he was the most delighted listener I've ever known.
Saturday Mornings
My dad wasn’t always there on Saturday mornings, but whenever he didn't work his weekend job, he would get up before anybody else—and, somehow, I knew to get up when he did.
At six or seven o’clock Saturday morning, just the two of us would sit at the dining room table while the rest of the family slept. He'd say, “Do you want to do a poem today?”
If I said yes, he’d have me go to the bookshelf. I’d pick one of our four books of poetry, maybe 101 Famous Poems, and bring it to the table. I’d choose a poem for us to read aloud to each other. Then, inspired by the poem we had read, we would each write our own poem.
Or, equally often, I’d say, “I have a question this morning, Dad.”
And he’d say, “Ok, what would you like to know?”
One time I said, “What's a fraction?” Even though I was supposedly “too young to learn fractions,” he explained fractions to me in a way that I understood.
Another time I said, “How do cars work?”
He said, “I don't know how to fix a car. But I know the principle of internal combustion engines. Let me draw it for you.”
Then he drew a cylinder, showed how gas came into it, how the spark plug ignited the gas, and how the cylinder was pushed out with great force—and how all this was repeated, one cylinder after another. That was the principle of the internal combustion engine!
Real Learning
I learned from my Dad that real learning wasn't learning the facts: “This is a carburetor. This is a distributor.” Instead, it was learning what a carburetor does and how it connects with the distributor and with what the distributor does—and how those things work together as processes. Yes, I learned that there's plenty to know about the details. But what I learned about learning is, the sooner you understand the principles, the faster all the rest goes.
And Then There Was School
In school, I was shocked to learn that we mostly got taught the details and rarely got the principles. If I had a question about a principle, though, I'd just ask my dad that Saturday and he'd explain it to me.
I remember being puzzled to see my classmates flounder with a subject that seemed so clear to me—until I finally realized they just didn't have a dad like mine.
So, when I grew up, I soon discovered that I love to teach. I also discovered that, for me, teaching is based on:
Expecting people to succeed;
Mirroring back to them their successes;
Helping them clarify their own goals; and
Helping them understand the principles of what they were doing.
Eventually, I also discovered that, during the delighted hours I had spent listening to my Dad’s stories and having him listen to mine, I had somehow become a storyteller myself.
All this has led me to become a teacher of storytelling!
What I Want for You
First, you don't have to settle for being taught just the facts; instead, you can insist on learning the principles and on finding delight in fitting the facts into those principles.
Second, my dad’s example can give us all hope: we can each turn whatever we may have lacked into a gift for those who come after us.
In short, you can create delight and connection in your life. And, even in a terrible pandemic, you can encourage others to do the same!
