{"id":3086,"date":"2020-07-25T08:25:59","date_gmt":"2020-07-25T12:25:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dahlman.online\/?p=3086"},"modified":"2020-07-26T07:50:34","modified_gmt":"2020-07-26T11:50:34","slug":"dads-lessons","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dahlman.online\/index.php\/2020\/07\/25\/dads-lessons\/","title":{"rendered":"Dad’s Lessons"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"Back
The Author in 1977<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The Man Upstairs<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s July 24th<\/sup>, 2020.  It would have been my Dad\u2019s 102nd<\/sup> birthday today.  He passed away four years ago, just a couple of days shy of 98 years old.  The light of his life, my Mom, had gone five years before that.  They had an amazing life together, so much of it full of joy and adventure.  It was only in those final couple of years before Mom died, and the last couple years for Dad, that things got sad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Mom died, none of us were prepared. The days after her death were a flurry, planning a funeral, and then finding that our \u201cfamily\u201d Weil Funeral Home couldn\u2019t do it on Yom Kippur. They were still great, and helped us move to the Catholic Gilligan Funeral Home. We were all worried about Dad, but he was more concerned about us. When the funeral was over, the Irish in us took over (after all, Mom\u2019s maiden name and all of our middle names is O\u2019Connor). With Jameson\u2019s in our glasses, we drank a toast to \u201cthe man upstairs\u201d. It was Dad; he\u2019d gone up to bed, the last night he\u2019d spend in the house where they lived for over forty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So now I\u2019m sixty-three, and thinking about him.\u00a0\u00a0His goal in those last years was to make it to 100.\u00a0\u00a0In those years, I was handling all of his finances. Dad would ask, \u201cdo I have enough money to keep living?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0The answer always was, \u201cOf course, you can live as long as you want\u201d.\u00a0\u00a0\u201cCan I make it past 100?\u201d he\u2019d press on, and I\u2019d assure him there was plenty for that.\u00a0\u00a0Dad always would pay for whatever we were doing, but then he\u2019d pat his pocket and say he didn\u2019t have his money.\u00a0\u00a0I\u2019d answer,\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI\u2019ve got your money\u201d.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I think he found that reassuring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Work Hard<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

There are lots of things that Dad taught me.\u00a0\u00a0Most of them were through example.\u00a0\u00a0Dad was one of the hardest-working men I\u2019ve known.\u00a0\u00a0Some of my earliest memories are from when he was \u201con the road\u201d Monday through Friday.\u00a0\u00a0There were evening phone calls from Indianapolis or Ottumwa, and he\u2019d pull back in on Friday ready to see his family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Saturday\u2019s there was always stuff to do, work around the house or the yard.  But Dad was no \u201chandyman\u201d, though he wished he were.  I didn\u2019t realize that until I was older.  When I got my first car, a 1969 Plymouth Fury III (I still have the keys) the engine was shot.  Dad was no mechanic either, but our neighbors Tom Morgan and Carlos Phillips, both were good ones.  So Tom, Carlos and I would work on that Plymouth, and Dad would join in until it got late enough.  Then he\u2019d fall asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Napping<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Dad made sure that all good \u201cDahlman\u2019s\u201d could fall asleep any place, any time.  So when things got late in the garage, Dad might be found snoozing somewhere, leaning against a tire.  It\u2019s actually a great skill to have.  I\u2019ve slept through Broadway plays, track meets with guns going off, and pretty much every airplane takeoff I\u2019ve been on.  Dad learned that skill as a kid with a bad stomach.  When he felt sick, he went to sleep, and woke up feeling better.  Later on you could count on Dad, asleep in a chair by the TV pretty much any evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But what really mattered was that Dad wasn\u2019t particularly interested in the guts of a big old Plymouth engine.  Looking back, he was there for me, to be a part of what I was doing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hit the Waves<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Dad was no \u201coutdoorsman\u201d either.\u00a0\u00a0But when we went to the beach, he loved the ocean, and the waves.\u00a0\u00a0He taught me the skill of bodysurfing when I was nine at Cape Cod \u2013 and we both enjoyed that for years.\u00a0\u00a0It wasn\u2019t until he was near seventy that the waves finally got him.\u00a0\u00a0We were in the Bahamas, bodysurfing some big rollers coming in from Florida.\u00a0\u00a0One flipped him head over toe, stuck his face in the sand and knocked his swimsuit to his knees.\u00a0\u00a0He got up, pulled himself together, and jumped in again, but ever after he was cautious of the big ones.\u00a0\u00a0Now that I\u2019m closer to that age, I get it too.\u00a0\u00a0I\u2019m not as reckless as I used to be, because now, getting twisted means waking up hurting .\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when it came for a \u201cwalk\u201d down the beach, usually several miles with the ultimate speed walker, Mom, Dad would pass.  Mom and the rest of us would head for \u201cthe end\u201d of the beach, and then come back.  We’d find him snoozing in the chair, usually with the tide lapping at his feet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I was getting my \u201cgoing to college\u201d award from my Scout Troop 819 (it was a glass bottomed beer mug, still on my mantle) Dad went on his first Scout camping trip with me so he could be there for the campfire ceremony.\u00a0\u00a0I\u2019m guessing the last tent he slept in was a shelter\/half in some field in Georgia during basic training in 1941.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I know he didn\u2019t sleep much (no snoring to be heard), and though I didn\u2019t realize at the time, again, it was to be a part of what I was doing.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"
Dad and me at the Campout – 1974<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Dahlman Tennis <\/h3>\n\n\n\n

But there was tennis.  Man, did Dad play tennis.  Even after he had a couple of strokes, and his left foot dragged a bit when he walked; put a racket in his hands and he could run across the court.  He played until he was 93, and he played to win.  His tennis group in Florida was called the \u201cWalking Wounded\u201d.  Dad only had two open-heart surgeries, but there was an open heart with knee replacements, a couple of artificial hips, and all sorts of other ailments in the crew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So when I was down to visit and kibitzed into the game, I tried to take it easy on our opponents:  my mistake.  Dad and I were parterned in doubles, and the opposition came to the net on a weak shot.  I ran up to take it.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don Dahlman\u2019s tennis rules were pretty simple:\u00a0\u00a0if the other guy hit a bad shot, and you could drive it down his throat, you did.\u00a0\u00a0It was pretty scary when I was ten or so, though I later learned to not \u201cfeed\u201d him a killable ball.\u00a0\u00a0So when open-heart surgery, two artificial knees and a bad elbow came to the net, I didn’t kill the ball. I lobbed it back over his head.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After the point, Dad took me aside.\u00a0\u00a0He wanted to make sure I understood the Dahlman rules of tennis.\u00a0\u00a0Even in the \u201cWalking Wounded\u201d games, there was no letting guys off the hook just because of their ailments.\u00a0\u00a0THEY stepped on the court; it was THEIR problem if they couldn\u2019t take it.\u00a0\u00a0\u201cBut,\u201d I said, \u201cI might kill him\u201d.\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWe\u2019ll win the point,\u201d was Dad\u2019s response.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t win a set of tennis against Dad until I was eighteen.  I didn\u2019t lose more than one or two after I was thirty (that would have made Dad near seventy).  It was no good trying to \u201cfeed\u201d him the points, he knew if you weren\u2019t going after it, and he didn\u2019t want to play you if you weren\u2019t trying to win.  So, with the exception of not hitting overheads (Dad would get dizzy when he went straight up in the last few years) we played tennis hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Tryouts<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Dad\u2019s work came home.  We were all a part of whatever he was doing at the TV station, or with the programs he was involved in creating and selling.  And we were definitely the final approval committee for new hires.  I think the logic went:  if you couldn\u2019t come to dinner and sell the bosses\u2019 kids, you probably weren\u2019t going to be able to convince Proctor and Gamble to buy four thirty-second commercial spots on the next TV show.  So we met the whole team, Grant and Lee, Bruce, Boyce, and Joe.  They passed the test around the dinner table, and went out into the world to sell Donahue, Sally Jesse Raphael, After School Specials, <\/em>and, towards the end, Jerry Springer.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Speaking of working for Dad, he taught me one other thing. He taught me a range of profanity that I have found to be a valuable and effective tool in my life, though I never used it towards people like he did.  He seldom used it at home, but it was clearly the \u201clanguage\u201d of his work. When he was trying to get something done, or get someone motivated, the shear creativity of Dad\u2019s language was amazing.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I never, ever wanted to work for him.\u00a0\u00a0It must have been a World War II thing, because some of his friends were as good at profanity or even better.\u00a0\u00a0And one of my earliest employers, a WW II Marine himself, did the same.\u00a0\u00a0Those kinds of words coming from a US Congressman really had a punch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some kids learn profanity on the back of the bus, and some at Boy Scout Camp.\u00a0\u00a0I learned a little about sailing from Jerry Ransohoff.\u00a0\u00a0But I learned so much more about language, and what could possibly be said with a four-letter explanation. And I learned lots of dirty jokes from Art Spiegel over the tennis net.\u00a0\u00a0But the “best” profanity I learned was from listening to Dad talk business on the phone.\u00a0\u00a0It\u2019s served me well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Take Risks<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Looking back, I realize Dad was a risk taker.\u00a0\u00a0He believed in himself and in his ability to do whatever job he put his mind to.\u00a0\u00a0If a company didn\u2019t give him what he wanted, he moved on.\u00a0He went from one company to the next:\u00a0\u00a0Adler to Crosley, Crosley to Ziv, Ziv to Avco. When Avco became Multimedia, he went from Dayton to corporate in Cincinnati, moving where he needed to be.\u00a0\u00a0Our family went with him, except for two years when we were in Cincinnati and he was in Dayton.\u00a0\u00a0The commute proved to be too much, and we finally moved to Kettering to be near the TV station, WLW-D.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the one move Dad never made was to New York City.\u00a0\u00a0That was the center of the broadcast universe, home to the networks.\u00a0\u00a0I\u2019m sure there were plenty of opportunities, and both Mom and Dad were city lovers.\u00a0\u00a0But they didn\u2019t want to raise us in the city, and they didn\u2019t want Dad to spend hours on a train every day to the suburbs.\u00a0\u00a0So he took risks and moved up, but never made the final move to NYC.\u00a0\u00a0He passed that up for us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad was a child of the Depression, and a veteran of World War II.  He smoked a lot when I was very little, as did most of his generation.  When he was forty-four, we were living in Bloomfield Village outside of Detroit. He came in the living room of the house one evening, and announced that he was smoking his last cigarette.  The doctor told him he wouldn\u2019t live to see his kids grow up if he didn\u2019t quit, so he did, right there.  I only saw him smoke once more, several years later in Dayton.  There was a stain on the dining room table; somehow cigarette ashes would get it out.  He looked immensely pleased to smoke one for that purpose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Final Lesson<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

But Dad and Mom taught us one lesson beyond all others:  how to love and how to live.  I had the honor of speaking at both of their funerals. I don\u2019t think I can say it any better now than I did when I spoke for the family at the pulpit at Trinity and Ascension Episcopal Church in Wyoming, Ohio, in those days of grief after Mom passed away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And most importantly of all, we learned the great gift of love.  There is no greater love story than that of Mom and Dad:  born in the bombing of London, nurtured through the trials and turmoil of the great American television boom; raising kids in the 60\u2019s, enjoying the life of travel that the 80\u2019s and 90\u2019s brought.  They were inseparable, they were one, they were the epitome of what commitment to each other meant. \u201c\u2019Til death do us part\u201d was only a part of their commitment. \u201cTo live life as one\u201d is the greatest gift Mom and Dad had to teach.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Happy Birthday, Dad, I\u2019m so glad you\u2019re with Mom again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"
Mom and Dad – at 90!!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Man Upstairs It\u2019s July 24th, 2020.  It would have been my Dad\u2019s 102nd birthday today.  He passed away four years ago, just a couple of days shy of 98 years old.  The light of his life, my Mom, had gone five years before that.  They had an amazing life together, so much of it full of joy and adventure.  It … Continue reading “Dad’s Lessons”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3086","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nDad's Lessons : Our America - Essays on Politics and American Life<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Don Dahlman, my Dad, would have been 102 last week. 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