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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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Wisdom of
Our Fathers by Tim Russert |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Teary Tim Russert received over 60,000 letters and e-mail responses
to his earlier book, Big
Russ and Me. He selected some of those messages from sons and daughters
about their fathers and assembled them with some structure and introductory
and reflective comments in a new book, Wisdom of
Our Fathers. Somewhere on these pages, you’ll read what a son or daughter
had to say about a father, and you’ll get teary. I know I did. Here’s an
excerpt, from the beginning of the chapter titled, “The Character,” pp.
63-70: Reading
through the letters that came in, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of
sons and daughters who wrote candidly—and often lovingly—about unusual, eccentric,
or deeply flawed fathers, men who might best be described as real characters.
They include a man who played golf without ever buying a ball, a father who
gave his daughter wildly inappropriate gifts that may not have been acquired
in conventional or legal ways, an engineer who operated on the family cat
(successfully), and a man who, when complimented on his two fine sons, liked
to say, “They were raised by wolves.” Another father told his new son-in-law
on the day of his wedding, “You love Annie and never hurt her. If you ever
do, I will kick your ass. Have a nice honeymoon.” And then there was my father-in-law, a man I never had the
pleasure of knowing because he died before I met Maureen. Karl Orth had been a college football legend in his day. During
the 1930s, he played for the St. Mary’s Galloping Gaels under their legendary
coach Slip Madigan, who had played under Knute Rockne at Notre Dame. Karl was a big man: six feet four,
two hundred and thirty pounds, which was very
big for that era. He was also very religious and was known to risk a
delay-of-game penalty because he sometimes insisted on praying in the huddle.
He had many friends, most of whom he kept close, which may explain why his
favorite expression was, “Save six for pallbearers.” Karl used to frequent Molloy’s, a tavern in THE
DIAGNOSIS This is one of my favorites—especially the
last line. There’s a big laugh here, although (or maybe because) the subject
is so serious. Mother let
me into the small apartment. When I asked her how Dad was doing she simply
rolled her eyes, pointed to the living room, then darted into the kitchen. Dad sat in
his favorite chair. He was listening to Al Jolson singing “You Made
Me Love You.” As I
entered the room he raised his finger to his lips and pointed to the ancient
phonograph. I was pleased by the old man’s appearance. He still had all his
hair—a great shock of thick white curls that framed his large, ruddy,
handsome face. His light-blue eyes looked clear. Dad looked robust and full
of good health, not like someone dying of cancer. I sat on
the couch across from him and listened to the song. Dad was enjoying it so
much that for the moment I forgot I had come to The song
ended. He turned off the phonograph and pumped my hand hello. “Dad, how
are you feeling?” “Great,
couldn’t be better.” “I spoke
to Dr. Grudin a couple of days ago. He told me you
have a problem.” “I had a problem. Its name was Grudin.” “Dad, be
sensible. Your problem isn’t Grudin.” “I’m not
going back to him. End of problem!” “Your
prostate needs to come out.” “It’s not
coming out. It’s a great prostate! Been with me for three quarters of a
century. That’s reliability!” “It’s
cancerous. You know that.” “Oh, cut
the crap, Don. I’m seventy-five years old. I feel great. I haven’t an ounce
of fat on me.” “Dad,
you’re not making any sense.” “Grudin is an alarmist. I’ll outlive him, Don. Bet on it!” “The
operation is routine. Your prostate has to come out. Why put yourself and Mom
through this?” He sighed.
“I appreciate your concern. I promise you this: The first time I can’t pee
I’ll race back to Grudin and let him have my
prostate.” “You know
you won’t tell a soul until it’s too late. Surely this operation doesn’t
have you scared. Tell me the truth. Why aren’t you having it?” “Son, Grudin doesn’t know my body like I do. He’s wrong!” “Dr. Roth
told you it’s prostate cancer. It took Mom two years
to get you to Sloan-Kettering, and now the diagnosis is confirmed. Dr. Grudin says your prostate is the size of a grapefruit,
and before long you won’t be able to urinate. Your kidneys will stop
functioning and that will lead to uremic poisoning.
This thing can kill you, Dad! Your prostate needs to come out!” He twisted
uncomfortably in his chair. We looked at each other for a long time; then he
breathed deeply. “Son, it
goes against my insides to talk about such things with you.” The apartment
was still except for the clinking sounds from the kitchen. “Did Grudin tell you the possible side effects of this operation?” “No,
what?” “Impotence.
The big ‘ The sound
of clinking dishes stopped. Mother walked into the living room. She didn’t
look at either of us. “I have to run to the store for a few things. I’ll be
right back.” When the
apartment door closed, Dad got out of his chair and walked over to me. “Don,
if I can’t make love to your mother anymore, I don’t want to live. It’s as
simple as that. I’m not interested in peeing into infinity. I’m interested in
making love to your mother till the day I die. And if I can’t make love
anymore, I’d rather die.” “Did you talk to Dr. Grudin about this?” “No. He’s an organic
chemistry guy who probably never read Dylan Thomas or Gerard Manley Hopkins.
He wouldn’t understand what I’m talking about. He wants to keep me peeing while
I want to keep on loving. Understand?” “I understand.
Remember, it was you who introduced me to Thomas and Hopkins. Though it’s
tough to admit, I do agree with you.” “God bless you, Don!” He bounded out of his
chair, flipped over the Jolson record, and turned
the phonograph on. I walked to the
bathroom in the rear of the apartment to the sound of Jolson’s
rich full voice singing “Anniversary Waltz.” As I closed the bathroom door, I
heard Dad’s voice join Jolson’s. “The
world was in bloom, There
were stars in the skies” My father never had
his prostate removed. He lived and loved another eighteen years after Dr. Grudin’s diagnosis. Dr. Grudin did not fare as well. He died of a massive stroke
eight months after he diagnosed my father’s cancer. Dad sent me a copy of his
obituary from The New York Times with
a note that read, Grudin pees no more. Love, Dad. —DONALD SCHEER, Boynton Beach, FL, retired foreign service
officer, son of Saul Scheer, printer (1905—1998) THE BAD MAN The first sentence of this letter was unique
among all the submissions. Her father may have been a bad man, but he still
taught her something. My father
was a bad man. He was a gambler, a pool hustler, an unfaithful husband, and
a coal miner who believed that anyone who crossed a picket line deserved to
pay the price. I knew all
this, but I loved that little man. He stood about five feet three inches,
with jet-black hair, thick dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. I loved him
even after he offered me a bribe to dump my fiancé so I could spend more time
taking care of him after my mother died. We lived
in a small Dad and
Father Frawley clashed often over the years. There
was the Catholic Men’s poker game, which my dad was winning quite handily
when Father Frawley came over and asked Dad in
front of the others why he wasn’t donating more of his winnings to the
church. Dad’s response: “Well, what’s a priest doing running a poker game?” Then there
was the time he and my mother got into a battle over Dad’s purchase of a
cemetery plot in a non-Catholic cemetery. She didn’t think Father Frawley would approve, and she’d end up buried in
unblessed ground, which meant she’d never get to heaven. She called
Father Frawley when Dad was three sheets to the
wind and put Dad on the phone. “Father Frawley? Fred Brown here
Yeah, we’re fine, Father. Father, I bought—yeah, I’ve been to mass,
you just didn’t see me; I’m easy to miss—I bought a cemetery plot over at But even
Father Frawley had to bend with the wind because
land was running out. Mom died and was buried in blessed ground. When my
dad died five years later, I worried that Father Frawley
wouldn’t bury him. Dad knew he was dying and wanted “the exact same funeral
your mother had.” But we really weren’t members of that church anymore. I’d
been away at college, and Dad—well ... the
last recorded activity centering around our family was the day my mother was
buried. Father Frawley met with my brother and me in a small office that
was just big enough for three hard-backed chairs and his desk. On top of the
desk was an enormously large book. When opened, it took up the entire
surface. We went
over the details of Dad’s death. Then he took a ruler and ran down the
columns of names. “I don’t
see a Fred Brown listed here.” “Really? I
can’t imagine why.” “I see an
Ann Brown.” “Yes,
that’s my mother.” “But this
is five years old.” “Yes, it’s
been about five years since she died.” Then he
turned to me and looked at me with those piercing, dark, unforgiving eyes
that darted out from underneath his eyebrows. “Did your
father go to church every Sunday?” I wasn’t
afraid. I met his gaze straight on. Priest or no priest, I was ready to lie. “Yes,
Father. Every Sunday.” “Then why
isn’t he listed as a contributor? There’s not one contribution mentioned.” “Dad
preferred to be anonymous and put the cash into the basket when it came around.” He stared
at me a long time. There was dead silence in the room. I could hear my
brother breathing, or maybe not. Maybe he’d stopped breathing just for those
few moments. But I never looked
away. If my dad taught me one thing
in this life, it was how to bluff. Father Frawley slammed the book shut. “Funeral will be
Wednesday morning, nine A.M. And I expect to see a contribution envelope in
the basket from you from now on, young lady.” “Yes, Father.” And so Dad had a great
funeral and he lies next to my mother in peaceful sleep—I hope. —SUSAN TISCHLER, Cape May, NJ, reporter, retailer, daughter
of Fred W. Brown, coal miner (1905—1977) Each reader
will find a description of a father on these pages that
lines up pretty well with one’s own father. Every father who reads
this book will find some selection that he wishes would be said about him by
his own children. Wisdom of
Our Fathers is sappy and teary, and well worth reading. Steve Hopkins,
September 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the October 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Wisdom
of Our Fathers.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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