My mother was a major influence on me. She was tough. The house was her domain, and she ran it loudly. “Charles,” she would holler to one of my brothers, “clean your room!” “David, wash the dishes!” “Bob, take out the garbage!” “Maurice, trim the hedges in back!” “Joe, mow the front lawn!” “Albert, vacuum the living room and dining room!” She was the sergeant of us six boys.
While Mom ruled the house with her voice, Dad was the opposite—he was a quiet man. I’m sure he had a lot to say to my five brothers and me but he always held it in, knowing that Mom would take care of things.
I sometimes wonder if I’ve been too fault-finding with my 13-year-old son, whom my wife Joan and I named Raymond, after my father. I guess I’m mainly a critical type, like my mom was with my brothers and me. Of course, my son needs to be “whipped into shape” every so often, but maybe I’ve been a little too rough on him. What will he think of me when he becomes an adult? Will it be, “He was too critical of me” or “He was just trying to teach me the right things in life”?
I hope it’s the latter.
My father never criticized or harped on me. We rarely talked, being that he was distant. I can understand why. He worked long hours, six days a week, at his small linen store in downtown Los Angeles. The only time we really bonded was when we worked together in the garden on Sundays. It was an unconscious act on my part to be close to him. He never asked for help, but I, more than any of my brothers, was always glad to work with him in the back or front yards. He’d never been an athlete, nor did he have any interest in sports like my brothers and I did, so the garden took the place of playing catch or going to sporting events with him.
Was he a good father? He was good in that he was the sole provider for our large family. He wasn’t so good in that he was distant, aloof.
Unlike my father, I’m not distant with my son. My son and I have connected mainly through sports. I’ve seen Raymond play in nearly every game he’s been in since he started participating in organized sports in the second grade. Every moment he was in a game, my eyes were focused on him. I wanted him to succeed so badly, mainly for his self-esteem. I’ve even helped coach several of his baseball teams over the years.
My son is my closest friend. We go to San Francisco Giants games on a moment’s notice and watch sporting events on TV. Whenever we’re together, I try to teach him the virtues of honesty, responsibility, reliability and fairness, while he teaches me to keep my big mouth shut.
I know I’ve been a little too critical of my son over the years, surely more than my father ever was of me. In that sense, I’m more my mother’s son than my father’s.
But when I look back someday, I’ll smile and think: Those were the days. We were a great team, Raymond and I. Boy, am I glad I had the chance to be his father.
Mom as a young woman
Dad as a young man