Words From My Father
"It was the sentiment in the note that made it unforgettable. Dad was expressing things in a way that maybe he didn’t know how to say at earlier points in his life — and mine."
It’s amazing the words we remember hearing throughout our lives. They can be from a friend, a partner, a teacher, a boss — even a foe.
But for sons, there’s someone uniquely special about hearing the right words from your father. Because it’s a singular type of relationship.
For me, two of the most meaningful things I ever heard from my dad happened long past my childhood. When I was a kid, he didn’t talk very much at home. Though incredibly gregarious and hilarious by nature, in the family setting my dad kind of clammed up. I think it was the result of being on the road so much for work,and not having a good father role model growing up.
Back in the early 60s, when he was a student at Denver University, Dad studied to become a sports broadcaster. I once heard an old reel-to-reel recording of him doing deejay duty and play-by-play for Denver hockey — he was awesome. Like Dick Vitale before there was a Dick Vitale.
But Dad opted to work in his father’s business after college instead of giving broadcasting a shot. It was a miserable year for him, and that’s before my grandfather sold the company without saying a word. Before he knew it, Dad became a traveling salesman, got married, had two kids, moved out of the city, and sales would become his road to great success.
At Indiana University, I studied broadcast journalism as well. I don’t think it was because that’s what my dad did, but the subconscious is a powerful thing. Ironically, I, too, went into a small business after I graduated. A friend approached me with an idea, and we took a shot. But it wasn’t the real shot I wanted, and my father could sense it.
One day when I was 24, Dad called me in my office. He heard my voice and could tell something was wrong. When he asked what it was, I shook him off and told him everything was fine. The next thing he said I remember verbatim — 35 years later:
“Look, don’t bullshit me. I’ve been where you are. I get it. And if you’re miserable selling that stuff and you want to go after your dream, do it now. Now. And I’ll help you. But do NOT stay in this thing if you hate it.”
A tear in my eye accompanies this memory. I can literally hear the tone of his voice in my head.
Soon after, I did leave that business and got a job as an assistant for the host of a weekly show on SportsChannel Chicago. Not long after that, I was covering the pro teams myself for the show. I was being paid peanuts (more like shells), but I didn’t care. I was interviewing the Bulls and Blackhawks four nights a week.
A few years later, I’d moved into news and worked my way up as a reporter at the CBS-TV affiliate in the Quad Cities. In 1995 I received an offer to go to a better NBC station in a larger market in Central California, and I said yes, sight-unseen.
Dad wanted to meet me in Fresno and help me get set up. We flew there separately, and I arrived a day early. And for some reason — don’t ask why — I made the colossal mistake of ordering Chicken Alfredo in the Fresno Airport. As soon as I got the keys to my apartment, I became violently ill.
When Dad arrived the next day, we went straight to the hospital. I’d contracted a bacteriological infection called Campylobacter, and it would end up torturing my stomach for weeks. He felt terrible that this was how my new adventure was starting. Two days later, after I drove him to the airport and returned to my apartment, I found a handwritten note he’d left behind:
To my son, Michael,
When you read this, I hope you are feeling much better! And you will be better very soon! I love you more than you will ever know. You are the son that a father dreams about!
I, in spite of your short term illness, loved being with you and seeing Fresno, which is where you will work and live. I am very excited for you and I know you will be the #1 newsman in the city. Good luck, feel better and enjoy the opportunity and experience here in Fresno. I’ll call you tonight.
Love Forever, Dad
At 27 years old, the words my dad left me were not words I actually needed — not like the ones he’d spoken a few years earlier. But this note meant just as much to me, if not more.
I never forgot that note, and when I recently came across it while going through old cards and letters, his words were exactly as I remembered them. (By the way, if you ever question how much you mean to the people in your life, I hope you’ve saved all the sentimental crap that I have. It’ll set you straight in minutes.)
At 83 and 58, Dad and I are closer than we’ve ever been. The guy who was always one of my best friends also turned out to be the be
MICHAEL GOLDEN is a national award-winning journalist and bestselling author. The Golden Mean is where he converts ‘hidden lessons’ into active wisdom.
