Responsible, Analytic, Learner

Up until my father died of heart disease when I was 4 1/2 years old, the few memories I have of that time are all infused with a glow of happiness. 

My very earliest memory is sitting in a high chair near the front room as my Mom brought me food for lunch. The sun is shining through the undraped window. All is right with the world.

When my Dad would come home from his jewelry and watch repair store in the late afternoon, he would sit in his front room chair with the newspaper. I would sit on this lap at watch the smoke curl up from his cigarette. I recall the fascination with the dynamics of that rising, swirling phenomena. 

There were nights when his buddies would come over to drink, play poker, and watch the fights on one of the first TVs in our little home town. My two sisters and I would be shuffled off to their shared bedroom at the very end of the hallway, far away from the front room, so our kids games would not disturb the card games. I still have those poker chips. I remember that being a very, very long hallway. But the house itself was less than 900 square feet. We could easily hear the information the TV provided about “Hamm’s, the beer refreshing”.

Then, very very early one morning, my sisters and I could hear a ruckus in the house. I got up and went to their room. We twittered and giggled to each other to work up the courage to see what was happening in the front room. As we came in, we could see Mom’s mom and her dad and others. All solemn. Some tears. 

Silly adults. (I was thinking) Life is a lark! Life is a sunny day enjoying lunch. Sad is silly. And the front room is especially reserved for happy things like Christmas and family gatherings. But I saw my sisters had instantly picked up the mood.

Then, it was only a second later my grandmother blurted out: “Awch, kids. Your Dad is DEAD.”

I had no ability to really understand what that meant. But I could see the effect. Everyone was shouting and crying. Even my two sisters.

So I cried too. The long, unconsolable anguish of a small heart overwhelmed with the incomprehensible.

A lot of pretty bad things have happened to me throughout my life. And a lot of pretty great things have happened. Yet, I have never since taken that emotional roller coaster from happy childhood to the utter breaking of my small heart as I did early that day.

The most successful people I know, the ones that have really learned how to “self-actualize” or be the best person they can be, have had some barrier or tragedy in their lives. Many have endured more than one. Uncountable numbers have had horribly worse tragedies than mine. But it seems the way of life is that overcoming those is part of the path to breaking out of our chrysalis and become the butterflies we are supposed to be. Can anyone really “self-actualize” without it?

I certainly learned a few very important things. For instance, victims have no choices. Victims are controlled by others. Victims remain sad and lonely. Like my Mom. After Dad died.

Almost as soon as my Dad died, well-meaning idiots would take aside this almost 5 year old boy and say: “Now, YOU are the man of the house.”

What the heck did that mean, anyway? Whatever it was supposed to do, it certainly gave me a crushing sense of unachievable responsibility.

A few years later. Sitting in my 2nd grade classroom while the kids are playing at recess. I am looking at my math work that had me puzzled during class. Even with the quiet discipline of the Sisters of Saint Francis, it was still too hard to concentrate with all those other kids there. Nice and quiet. I could do what I had done before. I would ask my Dad what the answers to the math questions are. It was comforting. It was almost sunny.

“Daddy,” I said aloud. “What is 15 and 6?”

“Oh, wait!” I replied. “I know! It is 21!”

The analysis of my math problems sped by with help from my Daddy up in heaven.

But then I noticed Sister Marie Ann peeking through the open door to the classroom. She looked sad. She looked concerned. She looked at me like I was a victim. She looked at me like perhaps she should do something.

I shut up. I didn’t need anyone’s help. She wandered off. I never played that game again. 

As a teen, I noticed a lot of my classmates thought that self-actualizing meant doing whatever felt the best — especially drugs. They seemed to be acting out the victim, or “poor me!” mentality whenever they could. I opted for trying to develop virtues and avoid vices. I didn’t necessarily think that my difficulties in focusing my attention needed to define my future. Or that the tragedy of my father’s early death meant that my future success should suffer. That approach certainly worked out better in the long run for me.

In the short run, my awkward and almost undetectable social skills combined with a strong internal moral compass did not make me the most popular kid. But taking control, in my mind, meant that I needed to also take control of my own inborn desires. Real friends could see that. I needed to make choices based on the best outcomes — not what feels good at the moment. 

I took a test a little while ago that told me my major strengths were “responsible”, “analytic”, and “learner”. In my successful careers as an Air Force pilot, aerospace engineer, and aerospace manager, those traits were invaluable. But I suppose they had their genesis in those very painful early years as I tried to be the responsible man of the house, try to analyze what the heck life had dealt me, and learn all I could to make all this work.

Perhaps that’s what I’ve been doing my whole life?