What Really Matters
Perhaps because my dad died at the age of 47, when I was only seven, I’ve always been drawn to stories about fathers and sons.
So, I vividly recall a little piece written several decades ago in ‘Reader’s Digest’ by a man who asked his adult son, “What was the most memorable experience you had with me as a kid?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the son answered. And that answer stunned his father.
“I fully expected him to say it was when we saw the San Fran Giants play the LA Dodgers in a home game. Or our family trip to the Grand Canyon. Or his first plane ride. Or when we took him to Cape Canaveral to witness a space launch.”
Instead, the son said, “The time you and I stopped to catch butterflies under that bridge!”
“What bridge? I have no recollection of the incident. When did it happen? And why do you remember it so well?”
“I was about ten. One afternoon I rode along with you on a sales call in the country. When I saw those beautiful butterflies, I asked if we could stop and catch some, expecting you to say no. But you did stop. And we had a blast!”
His son’s reaction had an impact on the writer as he pondered about potential relationships with his yet unborn grandchildren. He now understood that their ‘time’ spent together would be ‘what really matters.
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The story has stuck in my memory-bank for decades.
So recently, at age 76, I asked our three sons, who grew up in Fort Dodge, Iowa the same question. I did so without giving them a clue about how to respond.
We also had done the ‘big’ things: like flying to California and visiting Disney Land, riding a passenger-train along the Pacific Ocean toward Santa Cruz, a family vacay to Philadelphia and Washington, DC, a Minnesota Viking football game, trips to Florida, going to a rodeo in Cheyanne, Wyoming, and many other family events.
Following are their answers, with my reaction in parenthesis.
Ed (54) Iowa City, IA: “Pedaling on my bike to your insurance office where you would buy me a bottle of Mountain Dew from the vending machine. I always enjoyed it when you took me on a sales call, driving out in the country to a farm home. That was fun and I think you sold a policy every time I was with you.” (Melts my heart)
Tommie (51) Atlantic Beach, FL: “I remember going into your high school classroom at St. Edmond and you would show us off to your students. That was always fun. And going down to your insurance office where there was a coffee-maker, but I always drank hot chocolate instead. And the day I went with you on a sales call in Boone about an hour away from where Pope John Paul the Second said Mass at Living History Farms in Des Moines. I tried, without success, to talk you into going! (Wow! For a do-over on that one.) And how you always parked so far away from the church when we went to Sunday Mass. (None of the three have forgiven me for that minor idiosyncrasy. To this day they refer me as to Clark Griswold!). And Saturday morning breakfasts at D’Laney’s Restaurant. They made the best hash browns in Iowa.
Greg (48) West Des Moines, IA: “Fishing Saturday mornings in that farmer’s private pond. We caught a Bluegill fish every time we threw a line in the water! (Not an exaggeration). Getting into the booth at Dodger Stadium with you on cold Friday nights when you did the announcing for St. Edmond football games. Breakfast at D’Laney’s. Working in my first real job for $3.35/hour at your office filing and copying. Riding along on sales calls. I remember going to Bode with you one time. (30 miles away, population 298).
So, my conclusions?
That we were blessed with three terrific sons.
That what we think are big things in our minds are not always the really big things.
That kids are paying attention whether we know it or not.
That we sometimes do things right. And sometimes things not so right.
And that doing my best with and for the people I love is ‘what really matters,’ every day and in every way.
Oh, and if you promise not to tell my boys I will share a little secret with you. Now that they are ‘all-growed-up and gone,’ I park much closer to the church on Sunday.
Bill Sheridan