I almost never argued with the old man. You can count the number of times we argued on one hand. That isn’t to say I didn’t disagree with him. As you would expect in a father-son relationship that spanned 43 years, we disagreed about plenty.
Those of you who know me are probably staring at that paragraph in bewilderment. I love to argue. Hell, I live to argue. There’s nothing better than a good debate. I was even named “Most Argumentative” my senior year of high school.
But Dad was the one person I essentially would not argue with. One, it was a matter of respect. Even when I thought his opinion was completely wrong, I’d just offer a counterpoint and move on. Two, the old man, even at 5-foot-6 and 165 pounds, was one of the most intimidating people I’ve ever met. And I mean that as a compliment. He was a man’s man.
I’m always going to remember two arguments. One came after I’d moved in with him in 2003 after a rough 14-month stretch of working at The Monitor in McAllen, Texas, that included my divorce. I didn’t really fit in Texas, though years later many of the folks I worked with at The Monitor remain good friends. I also met one of my favorite people, the late Oscar Gonzalez, there.
One of the reasons I moved in with the old man, who was living in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, was that not paying rent gave me an opportunity to pay off some sizable debts, many I wasn’t aware of until after the divorce.
Dad agreed to let me use his checking account to pay some of the bills, with the stipulation that I pay him as soon as I got my first paycheck at The Topeka Capital-Journal (trust me, the old man made sure you paid him back).
In doing so, I did what many people were doing those days: I called the business and gave them the checking account number. This seemed perfectly normal and logical to me. It did not seem perfectly normal and logical to Dad.
“I can’t believe you GAVE them my checking account number,” he said angrily. “Don’t you EVER do that again, you hear me.”
I shot back that this is how you pay bills in the modern era. He wasn’t having it. I finally got pissed off, slammed the checkbook down and stormed out of the house. I didn’t return for at least 12 hours.
When I returned, of course, Dad made a point of telling me never to do it again, but with less vinegar.
“Whatever,” I replied.
We didn’t argue again until 16 years later in April 2019. Dad was nearing the end of the road. It was a stressful time for all of us, but I can’t imagine the stress he felt. I realized not long after that his biggest stressor was feeling like a burden, which he certainly was not.
At this point, my brother, sister-in-law, wife and I were balancing our work and family lives with multiple trips each week to take the old man to treatment. The doctors wanted to add a treatment each week, meaning we had to further juggle our schedules.
There are moments you remember when a loved one is dying. One I have a difficult time forgiving myself for is having an attitude that this was going to make life that much harder. Dad picked up on it immediately.
“This is my life, Ernie,” he said. “And you’re acting like it’s putting you out, like you aren’t that into helping.”
One of the things I inherited from the old man was a rather hot temper. While my fuse has always been longer than his, the temperature is virtually the same when triggered. Within minutes, I was storming out of his house, fuming, as my stepson looked on in horror.
“Don’t bother coming back, you hear me?” I heard Dad say as I slammed the door on my Terrain.
Two miles down the road, still fuming, I turned to my stepson and said, “Rory, you’re about to learn a lesson in humility and being humble.”
I floored the brakes, did a U-Turn and drove back to my father’s. We reconciled, of course, and talked about the root of our argument, which I won’t disclose here. The point is, we worked it out, like we did on the rare occasions we argued.
In the months that followed, Dad often got snippy as his health deteriorated. There were a few times I wanted to snap back. When I did, I thought about that day in April when I “showed my ass,” as my father often said about people who made a fool of themselves.