Tom Naughton

Dear Dad:

It’s impossible to explain a father’s influence on his son in something as measly as a letter.  I could write volumes and still have more to say.  So let me just talk about your shoes.

Although more than forty years have passed since I was a little boy, I still remember waiting for you to walk through the front door at night after work.  You were HUGE.  You wore dark suits and serious business shoes, usually black or brown wingtips, polished to a high shine.  You always struck me as being in a bit of a hurry, and when you strode across our wooden floors, those shoes went BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. 

I wanted to grow up as soon as I could and wear shoes like yours.  Sometimes I would pull a pair of wingtips out of your closet and remove the wooden stretchers - which took some effort for a skinny kid like me - and slip those big shoes over my feet.  I’d try walking in them, stepping carefully to avoid tripping.  I wasn’t big enough to make them BOOM, but I liked the way they looked.

I knew the wingtips were your working shoes.  I didn’t really understand what kind of work you did, but I knew working was how you took care of us.  I knew the dark suits and the booming shoes and the daily trips to your office were the reason we lived in a nice house, and also the reason we didn’t look like the shabbily-dressed kids we saw when Mom took us along for her charity work.

Now and then you took Jerry and me to the office on a Saturday when you needed to catch up on some paperwork.  We enjoyed those office trips, partly because of the old-fashioned soda dispenser, the kind with rows of metal rails that held the bottles upright by the necks. For a dime - you always seemed to have dimes in your pocket - we could slide a bottle along those rails and out the side to release it. The lid was heavy and you had to hold it up for us.  But that was easy for you because you were HUGE.

I liked the way your office smelled … like paper and ink.  I liked the starkness of the fluorescent lights.  I liked looking at the photo on your wall of someone handing you a plaque and shaking your hand.  I knew that whatever you did, you were good at it, good enough that people wanted to shake your hand.  When I sat and did math exercises at my desk in school, I pretended I was in my own office, doing important work that would make someone want to shake my hand.

I don’t know exactly when I decided I didn’t want to grow up and be just like you. Certainly by the time I enrolled in college, I knew I’d never be happy wearing dark suits and working in an office.  I rejected your advice about majoring in accounting.  I explained, somewhat hesitantly, that accounting might appeal to you, but I’d be bored out of my mind.

That’s when I began to realize you didn’t want me to grow up and be just like you, either.  When I chose pre-med for my major, you said that’s great, go for it, I’ll support you.  When I switched to psychology, you said that’s great, go for it, I’ll support you.  When I switched again to journalism as a junior, you said that’s great, go for it, I’ll support you. 

I’d like to say you were simply doing what any father would do, but I already knew that wasn’t true.  I had a girlfriend whose father disowned her when she switched her major from business to art; without any support from him, she graduated swimming in student-loan debt.  In high school I had a classmate who’d been told from birth he was going to be a doctor like his father, period, end of discussion.  He flunked organic chemistry in college and committed suicide.

When I had some humorous essays published after college, your golfing buddies told me how much they enjoyed reading them.  I was proud to be published, but more proud to know you’d been bragging about me to your friends.  When I announced I was going to quit my magazine job and go freelance, you said that’s great, go for it, I’ll support you - after all, you had quit a comfortable corporate job to run your own business and understood the drive to be independent.

And so, in a fit of optimism, I struck out on my own … and fell flat on my face.  That’s when I found out what “support” truly means.

It was embarrassing to spend part of my adult life living off loans from you, loans I knew you would never let me repay.  It’s still embarrassing when I think about it.  But I believe things happen for a reason; and even if they don’t, we can find our own reasons in them. 

Unlike Mom, you were never comfortable being affectionate. Until you became a grandpa, it took a couple of tall drinks to pry the words “I love you” from your lips.  I knew you loved me, but I didn’t fully understand that you love me, period, no matter what, just like Mom. 

I kept expecting one of those loans to come with a lecture attached, firm instructions to wise up, let go of my childish dreams, go get a real job as a sales rep.  But that never happened.   When you said anything at all, it was along the lines of, “Don’t worry.  Do something you love, and be the best at it. Things will get better.”  Those years, painful as they were, finally made it clear to me that you didn’t just support me.  You supported me.

I’m happy with my life, Dad.  It’s been a thrill to play in a band, act in plays, publish humor in magazines, travel the country as a standup comedian, and produce a film.  But without you behind me, I wouldn’t have done half of those things.  At some point, I would’ve given up.

I once asked another comedian what his parents thought of his act.  He said they’d never seen him perform; they didn’t think standup comedy was a respectable career, and they weren’t going to encourage him by showing up.  He asked if you and Mom had seen my act.  I just said yes; I didn’t think it would be polite to say, “Yes, many times, and they bring their friends.”

You didn’t choose my path, and I didn’t follow in your footsteps.  But when I look back, I realize I’ve worn your shoes many times. 

When I left a secure job to pursue my own goals, I was wearing your shoes. When I wrote clearly and powerfully, I was wearing your shoes.  When I made people laugh out loud with a witty observation, I was wearing your shoes.  When I worked and re-worked a programming project to get it exactly right, believing that “good enough” isn’t good enough, I was wearing your shoes.  Every time I returned money to someone who accidentally overpaid me, or gave to a charity, or helped someone in distress without expecting anything in return, I was wearing your shoes.

These past few years have not been kind to you, Dad.  Cancer, Alzheimer’s and age have diminished your body and your mind.  Your quick steps have slowed to a shuffle.  I’ve had to hold your arm and help you navigate the single step from the garage into the house so you don’t trip over it.  On some days, you don’t recognize Mom and have to ask who she is.  I know the next time I visit, you may not know who I am.

But I know who I am.  I’m your son.  And in my mind, you’ll always be huge … and you’ll always BOOM when you walk.

I love you, Dad.  Thanks for the shoes.

Dear Mom,

You said after you and Dad retired that you hoped to discover your purpose in life someday.  Since you’ve read rather a lot on spiritual topics, you already know that people who’ve had near-death experiences often recount being told to return to their lives, and to remember that the purpose of an earthly life is to love, to learn, and to teach.

If that’s true (and I like to think it is) then you’ve already been living your purpose, even if you’re unaware of it.  

When I was attending Illinois State, I met some of your former students, and they all thought you were a marvelous teacher.  I could’ve told them that.  I’ve been attending the Shirley Naughton School of Moms for five decades.  Here’s just some of what I’ve learned:

Pre-preschool:  Moms are warm and sweet, and they kiss you a lot because they love you.  When you grow up, you will probably marry Mom.

Preschool:  Moms don’t like it if you use your crayons to create an artistic expression on the bricks.  If you draw on the bricks, Mom will make sure you learn how to remove crayon marks with a toothbrush.  She will still love you, though.

Kindergarten:  Moms know how to make buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar and hot milk poured on top.  This is quite possibly the best breakfast ever invented.

First Grade:  If you don’t wear your scarf and hat, you’ll get an earache.  Moms warn you about these things because they love you.

Second Grade:  If you get an earache, it’s okay to wake up Mom in the middle of the night and tell her about it.  She’ll hug you and kiss you so you’ll feel better.  The next day, she’ll take you to the doctor.  He’ll put oily stuff in your ears.  And you should’ve worn your scarf and hat.

Third Grade:  Moms know how to take an ordinary can of Spaghetti-Os and turn it into the best lunch ever invented.  They do this by mixing in pieces of hot dogs.  It’s a lot of work, but they do it anyway because they love you.

Fourth Grade:  Really good Moms become den mothers for a bunch of Cub Scouts.  They teach you techniques for creating modern art, such as gluing split peas to a jelly glass and spray-painting the whole thing gold.  You can give these masterpieces to your grandparents.

Fifth Grade:  Moms don’t like slugs.  If you find a slug on the sidewalk, you definitely should not put it on the kitchen counter shortly before Mom walks in to cook.  Hearing your mother scream isn’t as much fun as you might think.  If you do put a slug on the kitchen counter, Mom will still love you.

Sixth Grade:  If you learn a new song at school, Mom would like to hear you sing it. If you sing really well, your Mom will say so.  If you don’t sing really well, she’ll say you do anyway.  You probably shouldn’t judge your talents based on what Mom says.

Seventh Grade:  If they are surprised, Moms can forget what their own kids look like.  If you forget your homework, you probably should not let yourself into the house through the garage door and surprise Mom coming out of the bathroom.  In this situation, Moms often mistake their kids for axe murderers.  If you do grow up and become an axe murderer, your Mom will still love you and tell people you’re just confused.

Eighth Grade:  Moms love dogs.  They also love hamsters and guinea pigs.  If you want any of these animals for pets, you should go straight to Mom.

Ninth Grade:  If you make Mom angry enough, she’ll spank you.  This isn’t much of a concern, however, because it doesn’t hurt.  Also, it will probably only happen two or three times in your entire life.

Tenth Grade:  Good Moms love your friends and feed them better meals than they get at home.  They also talk to your friends as if they have brains, which is true in most cases.  This means your friends will want to spend a lot of time at your house.

Eleventh Grade:  Moms are smart!  They can go to college and learn about English literature and philosophy.  The good news is that if you’ve also been reading literature and philosophy, you can enjoy talking to Mom about those subjects.  The bad news is that sometimes you’ll end up talking until 2:00 in the morning and spend the next day feeling tired and not all that philosophical.

Twelfth Grade:  If you’re studying literature in school, you should raid Mom’s library and see if she’s already read whatever book you’ve been assigned.  If she has, you could almost write a term paper on what you glean from the notes she scribbled in the margins.  At the very least, you’ll have some interesting points to raise in class and impress the teacher.

College, First Year:  Moms love you and don’t care what you plan to do for a living as long as you’re happy.

College, Second Year:  Moms don’t mind if your band practices in the basement.  They like hearing the same song fifty or sixty times in one week.

College, Third Year:  Moms love you and don’t care what you plan to do for a living as long as you’re happy.

College, Fourth Year:  When you come home for weekends and holidays, Moms celebrate by making Beef Bourguignon.  This is the best dinner ever invented and only takes a couple of days to whip together.

College, Fifth Year:  Moms love you and don’t care what you plan to do for a living as long as you’re happy.

Early Twenties:  When your best friend is getting married, Moms will make moussaka for the rehearsal party.  This is the second-best dinner ever invented and only takes a couple of days to whip together.  The next morning, it’s also the best breakfast ever invented.

Later Twenties:  If you write a play, Mom will be reasonably sure you’ve established yourself as a literary genius. 

Thirty:  Moms don’t care if you can’t find anything to do for a living as long as you’re not completely miserable.  Moms will assure you that if you follow your dreams, something good will happen.

Early Thirties:  Moms are good to your girlfriends and can even miss them when you decide you didn’t actually mean to get engaged.  Some girlfriends will tell you they wish they’d had your Mom instead of theirs.

Mid Thirties:  Moms make excellent comedic material.  If you can’t make people laugh by talking about your Mom, you’d better find another career to pursue.

Later Thirties:  Great Moms make great Grandmas.  Contrary to what some little grandsons believe, grandmothers don’t necessarily live in little houses that smell bad, and it can make you feel warm and fuzzy to see how much your nephews like going to grandma’s house.

Forties:  Little boys don’t actually grow up and marry their Moms.  But when the lucky ones grow up, they do get married and are almost ridiculously happy because they learned how to love and be loved - from Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  You really are a marvelous teacher.

I love you.

Tom

I got married relatively late in life, and now I have two little girls.  As a parent, you look forward to passing on all your accumulated wisdom to your children. It’s a little early for that, but in the meantime, I’ve learned quite a few lessons from them. Here are a few samples:

• If something is delicious, eat it without hesitation or guilt - and don’t assume anything isn’t delicious until you’ve plucked it from the floor and tasted it.
• If you’re bored, don’t sit around and mope … re-arrange your environment! You can start by dumping all the books on the floor, which will encourage you to begin that alphabetizing project you’ve been putting off.
• After a good nap, things that upset you a couple of hours ago won’t seem so bad.
• Don’t take glorious sights like a full moon for granted just because they’re common. Bounce up and down, point to it and yell, “Moon! Moon! Moon!” This will help others appreciate it as well.
• Chewing on a box of food is almost as much fun as eating the real thing, especially if there’s a picture on it. Cardboard is a low-carbohydrate food, plus you’ll burn a few calories gnawing on it.
• If you try over and over and over, you’ll go places and get your hands on things the bigger and smarter people swore you couldn’t.
• When you get hurt, cry with gusto for about two minutes, then forget the whole thing and move on to something else.
•  Anything in your environment can be a toy if you decide it is. Boxes, paper towels, shoe strings, feminine napkins, entire rolls of toilet paper – they can all provide hours of entertainment with a little imagination. (And if you’re relatively dexterous, you can stick the napkins to your chin and tell people you’re growing a beard.
• When you talk about the people you love, focus on the positive. For example, “I like leaning on Daddy’s belly, because it’s big and soft like a pillow.”
•  When you hear a song you like, wave your arms, stomp your feet, and shake your booty with abandon. If other people laugh at you, that’s their problem.
•  When you’re hurt, the people who really love you will hug and kiss you, even if you don’t smell very good at the time.
•  If no one’s kissed you lately – even though you smell fabulous – you can always kiss your reflection in the mirror. You can also talk to the mirror when other people don’t understand what you’re saying.
•  If the people you live with are always hogging the remote, hide it from them. Under the sofa is a good spot.
•  If you spread a few cashews around when you have more than you need, they’ll turn up later in unexpected places, and this will make you happy.
•  When you give advice, use clear examples. If your little sister is chewing on her hair, you could say something like, “Don’t chew on your hair! You’ll go bald like Daddy!”
•  A fancy vocabulary is overrated. A short sentence with simple words can often say everything that needs saying.
•  Whenever you try something new, there’s a good chance you’ll fall down and bump your head. But even a baby knows that’s no reason to quit.