“He isn’t much in the eyes of the world. He’ll never make history. No, he isn’t much in the eyes of the world, but he’s the world to me. My Dad.”

— From the Song “My Dad”

Paul Petersen, 1965



As a small child, I grew up in a very different world than the one in which we struggle today. It was a time of such institutions as neighborhood schools, full-service filling stations, doctors who made housecalls, filterless Camels, drive-in theaters, families routinely sitting down together for dinner, small town merchants soaping their windows in support of high school athletic teams and caravans of cars traveling to “away” ballgames.

Parents let their kids run around neighborhoods without fear of them being abducted. And, Heaven help us, no one ever thought about having their children’s candy X-rayed at a local hospital after Halloween. Most middle class households sported a single black-and-white television. There were no remote control devices; you had to get up off your rump and manually turn the channel. Programming was limited to the major network signals that could be snared from a rooftop antenna. On Saturday mornings, kids watched shows like “Fury,” “Roy Rogers,” “My Friend Flicka,” “Sky King,” “Rin Tin Tin,” and “Howdy Dudie.”

I also recollect our black, dial-less telephone. In those days, when you picked up the receiver, an operator came on the line and the caller verbally requested a number. (Kind of like talking to “Sarah” in Mayberry.)

Families didn’t generally function as democracies in those days. On the contrary, most fathers ruled their roosts like Daley ruled Chicago. For instance, I recall having to reserve the TV set a week in advance when “The Wizard of Oz” or Mary Martin’s “Peter Pan” were going to air. Dad usually acquiesced on those particular evenings, sacrificing his regular date with Edward R. Murrow.

It was also a time when a man was initially evaluated by the firmness of his handshake. As a result, some young men stopped hugging their daddies early on in favor of the handshake ritual. I can’t remember ever hugging my father after about the age of five. Matter of fact, I can recall it often being said when a baby girl came into the world, “The thing about them girls is that you can hug ‘em when they’re 90. Can’t do that with a boy.”

As such, I went about a quarter-century without ever hugging my father. It wasn’t until after he had survived triple by-pass surgery that I started hugging Dad again. By then, I had long since left my Southern Tennessee homeplace near the shores of Lake Chickamauga, traversing the Deep South with my wife, Claudia, and trying to climb the proverbial career ladder. Consequently, I was lucky to manage a visit with my parents maybe a couple times a year on vacations, given the distance between us. So, I well remember the day I finally embraced my father and said, “Dad, whenever I see you from now on, I’m not going to shake your hand. I’m always going to hug you.”

Misty-eyed, my old-school Dad hugged me back. And we’ve kept that hugging pact a long time now. I just wish it hadn’t taken his heart attack to reveal to me the folly of my earlier ways.

My father has always been my hero. He is the smartest, most versatile man I’ve ever known. An iron-tough WWII veteran, Dad was and remains a staunch conservative — right of Reagan. Truth is that I invested a lot of energy trying to be like Dad earlier in my life. Finally, I came to the realization that I was simply too intellectually and socially limited to be like my father, that I could only be me.

Dad is a product of the Great Depression. He never knew any of the privileges that he worked so diligently to provide my sisters and me. My sainted grandmother once told me how she would send Dad, undoubtedly pulling a Radio Flyer red wagon, down to the corner to retrieve the family’s portion of government cheese or whatever else might have been available in the week’s relief package. I also remember Dad telling me that there was a time during his childhood when he felt like he’d just die if he had to look another potato in the eye. (Pun intended.)

As a teen-ager, Dad rescued his first car out of a junkyard for $25 and worked on it himself to get it running. That was typically how tasks were accomplished in that era. Humble folk had to do a lot of things for themselves out of economic necessity. Young people learned by doing — sometimes serving as an informal apprentice under their fathers, sometimes by trial and error. Nowadays, a lot of dads don’t even teach their sons how to change a tire, let alone turn a wrench.

It goes without saying that my father never had much of a formal education. He was an under-aged, skinny kid, in fact, when he enlisted in the U.S. Navy a couple years after Pearl Harbor to fight for his country. And lacking the wherewithal to pursue higher education for himself, one of my father’s foremost goals in life was for his children to have the opportunity to earn a college degree. I think it was almost an obsession with Dad, especially where I was concerned, being the only boy in the clan. Accordingly, I grew to detest his repeated declarations of, “Son, you’re going to college. No matter what — you’re going to college.”

My father was, indeed, an autocratic kind of guy. Our family didn’t invest a lot of time and energy in negotiations. Dad was our undisputed E.F. Hutton — when he talked, the rest of us listened. When Dad spoke in the imperative voice, as in, “Clean your plate or you’ll get it tomorrow morning for breakfast,” you knew he really meant it. Therefore, I choked down a lot of green vegetables as a kid.

But underneath, my father was and remains a very tenderhearted man who would cry at Jimmy Stewart movies like “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Shenandoah.” His job caused him to travel extensively, but during football season, he would break his neck to get back in town for my games. And, believe me, I was no Johnny Unitas. That didn’t matter to Dad; he was proud of me, anyway.

He finally worked himself into that heart attack when he was only about 45. Physically speaking, he’s never fully recovered. Thank God, however, Dad has been the beneficiary of ever-improving drug therapies that have amazingly kept blood flowing through his semi-clogged arteries.

This week my father turns 80. I can recall times when he would say, “If I can just live to be 60, maybe I can get things to the point where your mother won’t have to worry about anything.”

Well, I guess God had a different plan for you, Dad, if only to stick around to show your kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids what it means to live one’s life with the utmost integrity and honor. What you said on Monday was always good on Tuesday. Thank you for that. And thank you for the zillion other things you’ve done for me.

I hope anyone reading this piece has been blessed with a father like mine — someone who has been a lifelong encourager, advisor, and friend. All of those are gifts with which God endows His disciples, and my father used those gifts to try to make all of his children’s lives a little better.

When I think back on the myriad blessings of my childhood, it just breaks my heart to observe so many youngsters today that are products of fatherless homes. Lots of guys today are all gung ho about the biological act that produces children, but that’s unashamedly the extent of their commitment. To me, such people are males, but they are not necessarily men.

Back to you, Dad — I’m sure sorry that I can’t be there for your birthday. The “Big 8-oh.” But, God willing, I’ll be coming for a visit in March during the college’s spring break. So, brace yourself for another hug.

I love you, Dad



Dr. Scott Elliott is president of Meridian Community College. E-mail him at selliott@mcc.cc.ms.us.