How did I become the man I am?
My father was born on January 13, 1921. He died early on March 1, 1993, of sinus cancer, diagnosed too late. He was a chemical engineer who worked on the United States space program in the 1960s, retiring at 58 when the moon landing ended America’s full-bore commitment to space.
Here he is in the middle 1960s, with engineer colleagues.
Not one to let grass grow under his feet, Dad set up a bakery in his and mom’s basement. Applying his engineering mind to the development of bread products, it took him several years to perfect his baking technique. Eventually, he created several multigrain products that he sold at farmer’s markets in the late 1970s, well ahead of that health trend.
You would see contentment and delight over a big order on his face if you knew him as I did.
Two days ago was his 103 birthday. How do I honor such a man?
I sit here in the early morning, pecking out another Medium story — this will be number 491. Last week, in San Miguel, Mexico, where Rebecca and I are spending January, I taught a Lifelong Learning course on the U.S. 2024 presidential election. That’s seven courses to mature students since I retired in 2018, with another one planned for 2026. I’m three years older than my father. Where do these efforts come from?
Nature or nurture?
My money is on nurture. To prove my point, I’ll tell you a story. You can then multiply that by 1000 to calculate the impact of this man on my life.
Which is why a good father matters.
I was 12, a gang member, and a criminal. Vinnie and Mark joined me in a pact to steal one item each from Smith’s Drug Store a few blocks from our neighborhood. I chose a bottle of aspirin.
Mr. Smith, no fool, spotted one or more of us pilfering and called Mrs. Cleveland, a neighborhood busybody who ratted to my mother. You should know that this was my second offense in three years — what our gang of nine-year-olds pilfered is lost to time.
My dad knocked on my bedroom door the night we were tattled on. Peter, who was two years younger and with whom I shared I shared the bedroom, was somewhere else. I felt that something was fishy as my dad sat on my bed.
He told me about Cleveland’s phone call. “It will take some time before your mother gets over this,” he said calmly. He meant my mom would not speak to me for a while — It turned out to be a week. I still remember the morning she broke her silence. It was breakfast time. I was sitting at our kitchen table, and she was at the refrigerator, “Would you like some orange juice, Paul?”
Dad took a different approach. The day after his bedroom visit, he came home from work early. He never, ever came home early.
“Paul,” he said, “let’s go for a ride.”
In the car, silence.
He drove us downtown along the 4th Street east-west one-way to the Davenport Police Station. We exited the car, and I followed him through the front door. Still, no words, including by me.
I kid you not, an officer sat at a high desk, just like in the movies. He came down and approached us. My Dad introduced me, and the officer’s hand grasped mine and said, “Come with me.”
I followed him through several doors, with officers everywhere. We ended up in a room with several empty cells. I don’t remember what, if anything, he said on our journey. He soon returned me to my Dad, who was waiting in the lobby.
Silence all the way home.
Do you have time for another story? I’ll make it short. It involves the third Gardner boy, Pat, who is six years younger than me. Pat is 70 this year and 19 when he and Dad met late one Friday afternoon at a bar in West Davenport. In the 1960s, this part of town housed many factories.
Pat was a so-so high school student but a great athlete with a powerful left arm. He was so good that he got a baseball scholarship from a local community college. But he never went to class.
As Pat told the story, after they had settled at a table with a couple of beers, Dad looked at him and said, “Look at the guys at the bar. Many of them are here every night. Just sitting.”
Soon after, Pat got a job selling paint at Sherwin-Williams. He never finished school but became a regional manager at Sherwin over the decades, retiring a few years ago. Today, in retirement, he transports donated organs to hospitals around the area.
Character is built from the accumulation of stories like these. It’s like a sand timer hourglass, from father to son.
Looking back, I ask, How did I become the man I am?
