There were a lot of layers to my dad.
He could be reserved and soft spoken. He could be loud and opinionated. He
loved his spy novels, but he also loved vintage comedy, which seemed as funny
to him in the moment as it did when he first saw it decades ago. Almost every situation
was ripe for a wry comment or observation. I remember him telling me that on his final day
of work, when he finally retired from United Mental Health, Inc., he marked the end
of the day – and really, the end of an era – by marching a toy robot out
of his office to indicate that he was about to leave.
If he really found something hilarious, he would let fly with a raspy
laugh that sounded like metal rake being dragged across cement – a Shanley
family trait which I heard coming from my aunt Mary Jeanne many times as well.
When I was in college I frequently
came over for Sunday dinner and Pop often slipped me a couple dollars. “Don’t
tell your mother,” he’d say. And he didn't say this because Mum would object to me
getting the money. It might have been her idea, for all I know. “Don’t tell you
mother,” was a line from a comedy routine by Shelley Berman, based
on a conversation he had with his father.
I discovered this comedy bit through
my folks. In it, Berman recounts how he wanted to join his friends at acting
school and needed to ask his dad for the money to do it. Too afraid to ask him
in person, he calls his day at work – at a delicatessen. On a Saturday, the
busiest day of the week.
You hear the phone conversation only on the father’s
side. He’s already mad that he’s being pulled away from work, and he gets even
madder when he hears that his son wants money for acting school - something he
consider frivolous.
But as the conversation goes on, he
gets his son to commit to working in the shop and he’ll give him the money,
including “a Christmas bonus,” which is why the Jewish father tells him, “don’t
tell you mother.”
In the set-up of the routine, Berman
jokes about his dad but also defends him, saying he’s a good person. And you
hear that as the bit proceeds. The father’s anger turns to support – even if he
thinks his son is crazy, he’ll be there for him, reminding him, “No matter what
happens, here, you’ll always a home.” I love this comedy routine because in
addition to being funny it’s also poignant – a homage to his dad.
I once had a phone call with Pop that
I feel paralleled Berman’s. I was taking a class in college that I thought I
was going to fail and I wanted to drop it. But I was worried about how that was
going to affect my financial aid. So I figured I’d call the house and get some
perspective – from my mother. If I talked to Pop, I figured I’d be in trouble.
I called my parents’ house – and Pop picked up. Here it comes, I thought. He’s going
to give it to me.
I told him what was going on. I
couldn’t hack the class. I was afraid I was going to fail. What do I do?
Much to my surprise – and relief –
Pop was cool. And empathetic. Don’t give up. Talk to your professor. If you’re
straight with her, she ought to understand.
He went on to explain that when he
was going to Duquesne, he had a similar experience. He was working overnights
at the J&L mill, going to school by day and needed to talk to a prof, and
the two worked things out. In talking about his combination of school and work,
he had to lighten the mood with a joke, “You get a difference perspective on
things when you have three squealers at home,” which affectionately referred to
my three older brothers.
I knew that he had worked overnights
and had gone to school during the day. But it never occurred to me why up until that point. That was what
you did to support your family. The weekend performances at Churchill Valley
Country Club – it wasn’t just a music gig, even if the band really swung. It
was to support the family.
The impact of what he said on the
phone that day might not have been immediate but I did realize at some point that if he could
do all that, one anthropology class is nothing for me. I could pull myself
up by my bootstraps and work a little harder. And I did. And I got an A. When I
told him that, he said, “See I told ya.” And it wasn't a patronizing thing. It
was said with that mischievous look in his eye, that had wisdom with it.
Sometimes the things that you learn
from your parents are not the things they say to you directly. They’re the
things you discover after they’ve put you on the path of your life. The
in-between things that you don’t even realize at the time.
There were a lot qualities that my
dad possessed. One of the biggest ones was that he was deep.
