. . . but first this word form my intention. . . .
I aims (as #43 might slay) to post daily, which adds up to around seven times every week here at H&Q. This is because I am a writer with a few things on my mind which I hope YOU, the H&Q reader, find amusing. I believe the more I write, the more the odds favor my learning how to write better, my long-term goal, and the better writer I will be for the beneficent son or daughter of a married father who hires me to write full time. I’m not a preacher, and our Father who art in heaven will be the first to tell you I am not a humanist/moralist. So “let me entertain you, and we’ll have a real good time.” (Thankyou Gypsy Rose Lee.)
Funky Winkerbean did NOT appear in the June 15 State Journal-Register. The strip seems to be the Fred Thompson (who appeared on This Week with George the Greek today) of comic strips: who appears to be a part of the grand plan but really is not. Another metaphor? You bet! Coming right up. . . . Funky Winkerbean is the almost-empty half-pint of peppermint schnapps I found in the grass by my bank a few days ago. I picked it up, considered putting my lips to it and tasting the five drops remaining in the corner of the bottle . . . . . but then I decided better and didn’t. The likely reward would not have matched the consequence of the effort. I’m not encountering the ‘Bean often enough to rely on it, and if it’s a kick I want there are more reliable ways to get it. Por ejemplo, Opus was in good stride today: a two-base hit and that’s enough. They don’t always fly out of the ball park.
Kudos to NBC, Fox news and ABC for their coverage of Tim Russert today. As soon as Tom Brokaw’s excellent round table retrospective of him was over, I encounterd Russert and Chris Wallace’s laudatory voice concluding that show on Fox as I crossed the dial to ABC for the start of This Week. It was all good coverage. Russert was solid gold. I admired his preparation, his staying on point when asking questions his guests were disinclined to answer straight, and I celebrate his love for his dad, his wife and son. I HOPE someone of Russert’s integrity will fill that spot at Meet the Press. No one will ever duplicate his wealth of exemplary passions. Rest in peace, Mr. Russert!
And that brings me to my own Dad, who passed to the next dimension in 1994. Most of what I am today I learned from Job Clifton Conger, III and those who know me well will tell you that statement is honey with a touch of Agnostura Bitters added. He never told me to be dishonest or steal or to do anything wrong. That does not a perfect father make. There’s more to it than that. I am honored to share his name; honored to have been his son. He taught me the value of inclusivity. In 1967, a good friend (nameless here), his father, father’s friend and I were tooling along in a rented car from Dayton Municipal Airport to the US Air Force Museum we had flown over to visit. My friend saw a person who, in profile shadow, would resemble a 5-foot nine-inch pumpkin with a tomato on top, and he remarked how he bet she never said “no” to dessert. I responded that I try to remember whenever I point my finger at someone, I’m pointing three at myself. My friend’s father remarked that I made a good point. End of story. (Flash forward: cynicism has a bad name today. Russert was praised for never having a cynical attitude. That is not to say one should not criticize others. I don’t want to be cynical (”What NEVER? No NEVER. What, NEVER? Well, hardly ever.” Thank you Gilbert & Sullivan and HMS Pinafore) when I criticize, but sometimes it comes out that way. So I contradict myself.
My dad’s attitude almost meshed with my friend’s dad’s attitude, but my dad was a picky hombre. What my dad lived, he loved as long as it took for his loved person or cause to short-change him. Then dad walked away for the rest of his life from that cause or friend and never forgot. Forgive? Perhaps. But you know, I’ve learned that “forgive” is a word; nothing more. It means nothing if you don’t forget or at least put those “speed bumps” BEHIND YOU. Dust yourself off and pull into the expressway of life again. Tim Russert’s dad clearly taught him how to do that, and that is, in part, why Tim Russert succeeded.
Dad could never do that, and I believe that is why he died very much alone, though I lived right next to him in a duplex we bought during his final years in Springfield. He lived on his side; I lived on mine. I visited him often; he visited me not one time in two years we had that arrangement. C’est la vie! What I loved about my dad I love to this day. The rest? . . . . Well, let’s just say I “forgave” him.
Happy Dad’s Day, pop; wherever you are.
Do the right things right, and if you can’t be above average . . . . . . . . . . . be good-looking.
