If my father were alive today, he would be just shy of 111 years old. He passed away 56 years ago when I was a 19-year-old first-year cadet—a Rat—at the Virginia Military Institute. His death left an enormous hole in my life when I was hardly a man. I have missed him ever since. He did not see me graduate from VMI, enter the Army, and rise in rank and responsibility. Nor did he witness any of my years as a legislator in the Virginia General Assembly, something he would have much appreciated. He would have been delighted with the woman I married and adored our kids as we do. Had he lived to my age now, maybe even a decade longer, he would have approved, and that alone would have been gratifying to me.
Nonetheless, I am indebted to my dad. He was a loving and brilliant man. Having entered the University of Richmond at 15 years old, he would graduate when he was 19, enter the Medical College of Virginia, and, at the tender age of 22, become a practicing physician. He was beloved by friends and patients alike. But for me, he was simply dad, a man who taught me a lot.
Itches
I grew up in Richmond amid the era of segregation, when black people living just a few blocks from us were deprived of the rights we took for granted. Yet my father, who was not a social justice warrior, had a heart for the downtrodden. That I am sure was based on his own experience as a poor white boy during the Great Depression. As a “Country Doctor,” he would serve poor farmers and black laborers on the outskirts of Richmond. House calls were the norm in those days. Later, when he became a dermatologist, he had an office on Richmond’s Monument Avenue. There, his waiting room was populated with both whites and blacks sitting beside one another, while other physicians’ waiting rooms of that era were still segregated. Curious, I asked him why his wasn’t. His response was simple. “Son, an itch is an itch.” In one brief response, my dad taught me how people should be treated. Equally.
Stiches
My dad enjoyed his boat. We had a 30-foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser that he just loved. It was the one big luxury of his life, and I would always come along to the river to be with him. One day, while he was fueling the boat at a marina dock in Kinsale, Virginia, a lady stumbled and fell into the water. Grabbing a piling in the process, a large splinter of wood lodged in her leg. Without missing a beat, my dad came to her aid. Turning to me, he directed me calmly to fetch his medical bag, which he kept on board the boat. To my amazement, he laid out surgical gear on the dock, removed a huge sliver of wood from the lady’s leg, cleaned the wound, and stitched her up before a gathering crowd of onlookers. Afterwards, he did not speak about it. His actions did all the talking, teaching me all I needed to know about caring action done humbly.
Switches
As a boy, I became fascinated with politics during the Nixon-Kennedy presidential contest. Neither of my parents spoke much about politics. They were busy working, raising kids, going to church, and engaging in various social functions in our neighborhood. Yet I was curious about what my dad thought about, and I asked him who he voted for in the 1952 elections, the year after I was born. He had supported the Republican, Dwight Eisenhower, in 1952, but switched to Adlai Stevenson, the Democrat, in 1956. This fascinated me, and I asked him, “Why?” His response was typically pithy. “Well, I thought Stevenson was smarter.” Actually, that made sense to me, coming from a man who at 15 was still wearing knickers in his first year of college as he studied Latin, Greek, and German along with a full load of subjects in preparation for medical school. For my dad, intelligence mattered, and that was reason enough to switch.
As I reflect on my dad, his inclination for justice, his unhesitating care for people, and his preference for intelligent leadership, I suspect he would be quite displeased with what we are witnessing today. He would abhor the spiteful bitterness and the race-based political vindictiveness that do nothing to bring people together, something that simple respect accomplishes quite well. He would be concerned with our neglectful care of others. And of course, he would be stunned by the vacuous nature of modern politicians who routinely display their ignorance of civics and their disdain for civility.
When it comes to itches, stitches, and switches, he’s still teaching me.
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