Lessons From My Father
And his son’s attempt to pass them on
By Rick Alloway
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the continuum of time. Maybe it was the reflection at the conclusion of another school year. Maybe the recent passing of a couple of close high school friends. But I know at least some of my thoughts were tied to the annual spring holidays honoring mothers and fathers.
In particular, this weekend’s observation of Father’s Day led to some reflection about parenthood, and the handoff from one generation to the next — from a father to his son, and on to that son’s own boys.
This generational hand-off is of particular interest to me because I have limited knowledge of my own biological lineage. I am an adopted kid, and in the mid 1950s, details about adoptions were generally tightly sealed. However, my parents were able to tell me some of the circumstances of my birth, and of the sequence of events that led to my placement with them.
Though this is a Father’s Day essay, my adoptive mother’s favorite saying fits well here. She was fond of saying that “all things happen for a reason.”
My adoptive parents were born within a year of each other in Kalamazoo, Michigan. They married in the early 1940s, and following college, moved to New York City. Here’s a personal favorite picture of them as a young couple, beaming with love as they started their marriage.
Following a stint in the Army Air Corps during World War II, my soon-to-be adoptive dad moved with his bride to Lincoln, Nebraska. They had decided not to return to their hometown. Following extensive research and weighing a lot of options, the decision was between Lincoln and Madison, Wisconsin. Both were university towns of similar size in the Midwest. I don’t recall hearing what the tie-breaking factor was, but for whatever reason, Lincoln got the nod.
Lucky for me. Had Madison won out, I would never have met these two wonderful, loving people.
By the early 1950s, after years of trying to start a family, it became clear that adoption was going to be their only option and they started the process through an agency in Omaha.
At about the same time, a judge here in Lincoln had a legal secretary who had become pregnant. For a variety of reasons, she had made the decision to put the child up for adoption after birth. The judge was making inquiries of colleagues in the local justice system about potential adoptive parents. My eventual parents lived next door to the chief of police and a couple of doors down from the county attorney, both of whom knew of my parents’ dreams of starting a family. Both neighbors wrote reference letters on behalf of their young friends, and in the late spring of 1955, a four-month-old boy came to live with the Alloways in South Lincoln.
From the start, people remarked on the physical resemblance between my adoptive father and his adopted son. If you overlayed my kindergarten photo with my father’s from that same age, they were almost interchangeable. I sure seemed to belong with them.
Growing up, I learned a lot from my father. Some lessons he taught me. Others were from simply observing his relationships and interactions with my mother, his friends and me.
In many ways, he was the prototype of the stoic mid-century American male. He was measured in his words — never the loudest at family gatherings — but whatever he said resonated. That taught me to pause before speaking, though I still have work to do there.
He had a dry sense of humor and was very good a cracking his son up. My own experiences laughing with our sons are some of the brightest moments of my life.
Conveying verbal emotions was sometimes difficult for my dad. I don’t recall that he actually used the words “I love you” often, if at all. Yet I knew I was loved and valued. That taught me to be sure my own sons know how I feel about them. I try to remind them frequently.
He viewed his role as protector of and provider for his family. As a result, I sensed he had reservations about my mother returning to the work force once I became old enough to spend days in school. He didn’t object to the concept of her working; he just worried her decision meant he wasn’t doing a good enough job as the “hunter/gatherer” for the family. That wasn’t the case. My mom simply wanted to pursue a long-held interest in teaching. Her teaching career would become the inspiration for why I teach today — that’s a subject for another essay. But in the case of my own children, my father’s reactions taught me to be supportive of my sons’ choices for their careers.
My father’s views for his own career differed from those of his peers. Many of them had inherited jobs within their family businesses and had handsome salaries and lovely homes. In contrast, my father voluntarily changed career paths at least three times during the time I was growing up. He simply grew bored with what he was doing and sought new challenges. In the 1960s, that was not necessarily the norm, though it is likely to be for many of the students I work with today. Regardless of his career, my father worked hard and took pride in his work. I have endeavored to do the same, and to pass that on to my sons.
Our political views didn’t always align, but my father encouraged me to be engaged and to be considerate to others. I have tried to model for my sons that engagement and concern for human rights.
Because I was adopted, it wasn’t until the birth of our first son in 1984 that I actually had a flesh-and-blood connection with another human. Holding him in my arms for the first time and seeing him turn his head to respond to the sound of my voice caused a profound sense of connection in me — different from my connections to anyone else in my life. I instantly wanted to share with him what I had learned and observed growing up.
I found that my sons would learn as much from how I acted as they would from what I told them; the same relationship I had with my dad. The continuum of time was doing its trick.
So, this Father’s Day weekend, I am reminded that I was blessed with a wonderful and nurturing childhood home, and a loving relationship with my parents. Every day seemed to bring a reminder of some sort that I was where I was meant to be; that indeed, “all things happen for a reason,” and in the way and at the time they are supposed to.
Through all this, I am reminded of my favorite song from “Wicked.” The Stephen Schwartz lyrics resonate in every stage of my relationships with my father and my sons.
“I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return.
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you.”
I have, indeed, been changed for good. Thanks for everything Dad. Cheers.
