EDITORIAL: A little bit about my dad
Jun. 17—My dad.
Just those two words bring to life images that are bigger than life. To me, at least.
Dad was a career IBMer. In the language of many in the town of Endicott, New York, where IBM was founded, located and pretty much dominated the town, my dad was one of the many zipper-heads. He didn't mind the moniker because his father didn't mind it. Each spent about four decades working for IBM.
What this meant was far more than simply the 9 to 5 job working in a dark suit, thin dark tie, black shoes and white socks. That daily, corporate "uniform" meant that my dad respected the company he worked for and the image it expected to perpetuate. It wasn't questioned. Ever.
Of course, this was the 1950s through the 1990s.
My dad passed away unexpectedly in 2004 at the age of 67. Smoking did him in. I had to write his obituary.
But if he were alive today, he would lament the fact that so many people would rather not work and simply put their hand out. He would not understand why people aren't being paid what they are worth, while the fat cats are sitting in their ivory towers secure in their multi-million dollar salaries. He would wonder why minimum wage was being turned into a livable wage.
He would also have high respect for the New York Yankees, because they are the only remaining team that continues to expect and require any player putting on the pinstripes to present themselves neatly and professional.
While he was alive, my dad rarely concerned himself with those kinds of troubles. He didn't have to. He worked hard, always looked for advancement, took care of his family, gave his time to the volunteer fire department and EMS squad, played some softball and golf, and spent many hours working in the yard and garden.
It seemed to be a simpler time.
Another thing my dad carried on from his own father was never EVER writing cursive. He printed everything, almost always entirely uppercase. It's something I adopted at a fairly young age, and in fact had to be rescued from detention in the fifth grade. My teacher wasn't pleased I printed everything and didn't believe my story abiut how my dad and grandfather also did that. So Dad came and got me, setting the teacher straight before we left.
I never had trouble after that.
Other things I learned from Dad includes how to be organized, how to prioritize, how to care about others and — this seemed to be incredibly important to him — how to cut the grass in perfectly straight lines. I do that still today.
When I was a senior in high school, my dad allowed me to design the home they would build. I had just earned the school's mechanical drawing award, so I guess he felt I knew what I was doing. So I designed what he gave me as "needs" and "wants." When finished, my drawing was taken to an actual architect, who polished it, and that home was built. It still stands today in Highland Park, Endwell, New York.
Dad and I did many things together. We tossed a baseball; we were in Boy Scouts; we served on the fire department and worked on the ambulance; we fished; we hunted; we played numerous softball games; played a lot of ping-pong; and we played cowboys in Texas with horses and cattle. Most importantly, we talked.
He might be physically gone, but he is here with me spiritually every day. He left a strong legacy in his children, and I am only sad my grandchildren and at least one other very special person won't have the chance to meet him.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
W. Curt Vincent can be reached at 910-862-4163 or cvincent@bladenjournal.com.
