Me and My Dad: How We Communicated

I’ll never forget.  Every evening when my dad got home from work he would give my mom a kiss and sit himself on the end barstool and begin taking off his tie.  He did this very slowly as he waited for her to start talking about her day playing bridge at the women’s club and how dumb it was that Mae chose to trump some card instead of going down on some other… To me is sounded as if she had spent the day making a spaceship with these women.  (Oh, for sure she tried to teach me the game, but after several lessons I still had no clue what I was supposed to do, so she at last gave up on me.  Whew!)  She would go on for what seemed an eternity discussing the game’s strategies that weren’t played properly while my dad actually listened to her.  It was after he had given her time to vent about all the important matters of her day that he would go upstairs, change clothes, and return downstairs to read the newspaper and finish his third pack of Salem Lights.

            My dad was a man of few words, but when he spoke I wanted to listen.  I always knew when I asked for advice he would hear me out fully, inquiring into parts of my discussion he didn’t quite understand.  He would formulate his answers only if he knew what he said was relevant and trustworthy information to share.  He wouldn’t offer too much information, just enough to answer my questions, unless I pressed him for more. I do not believe he did this for any other reason than he wasn’t impressed by the sound of his own voice.  It wasn’t in his nature to impress others with his knowledge, which he seemed to have an abundance of.

            Holmes talked about how silent participants can be the most powerful players in conversations.  I can speak for my older siblings when I say his presence was enough to keep your mouth in line.  It wasn’t because he was a prude or that he would call me out when I expressed my opinions either.  All he had to do was sort of snort and I knew he didn’t agree with me.  My opinion was always valid in his eyes as it was my opinion.  He simply knew he didn’t have to rant and rave that I was wrong even though he might strongly believe I was.

            My dad never brought work home, something my mom resents to this day.  He rarely initiated conversations about just any old thing, but would engage in those discussions he was invited into.  To some it might seem as though he was some sort of recluse or introvert, but that was hardly the case.  His humor was always timely and appropriate for the audience he addressed.  He also lived by the Ten Commandments although he never spoke of them or set foot in church the entire twenty-six years I knew him except when he led me down the aisle.  Above all else, he treated everyone with quiet respect.

            I often wish I had initiated more conversations with my dad while he was alive.  But I, like my dad, was content just being with someone I loved and trusted, feeling comfortable with few words spoken.  Perhaps this sort of communication is the most sincere of all.