Will Junior. That's what his family called my father in the early years of his life. Dad was named for his father, William Thomas McConnell. He was a "junior", hence the name.
He came to the family late in his parents' lives. He was what was generally called an unplanned or a "surprise" child and was much younger than his siblings. He had nieces and nephews older than he. His mother had more time to spend with him than she had with the older children and she absolutely adored him. For my dad, the feeling was mutual. He described his mother as an angel and really believed it. He was born into a large farm family (Weren't they all back then?) that sought to scratch out an existence in the narrow valleys squeezed between the steep hills that made up Robertson County, Kentucky.
Those hills were steep, amazing and challenging. Just walking them was difficult for a young boy. As a kid I remember sitting on the porch of an aunt's home and listening to the squeal of tires as cars zipped around those curvy roads that followed the crests of the hills. It was a common occurrence for those cars to slide off the road and be found at the bottom of a steep and rugged hill. Most times the driver walked away from the wreckage. They were a hardy people.
Besides basically being a farmer, my grandfather held some elected offices in the county. He was best known for his time served as the County Sheriff. W. T. (What he was called.) was a "yellow dog Democrat." That meant that if a yellow dog had run for office on the Democratic ticket, W. T. would have voted for it. It would be an understatement to say that he was a hard and difficult man. The stories told about him paint him as a basically angry man who insisted that things be done for him, done his way and done immediately. He was quick to lash out at others with his tongue and his hand. He disciplined often and harshly. Most people were afraid of him. I can't remember him saying 10 words to me. When I got to know him he was a tall, gaunt, sinewy, unsmiling old man. I am sure he wore other outfits, but I can only remember him wearing one of two contrasting outfits: clean, starched bib overalls or a loose fitting suit, white shirt and a short, wide tie. There was nothing about how he carried himself or how he interacted with others that said to me, "Hi honey. Why don't you jump up in my lap?" His whole being gave off vibes that warned you to stay away. I can't really remember ever touching him.
By the time I got to know him, sometime around his thirty-first year, everyone I knew either called my father Dad or Mr. McConnell. My Mom called him Bill. I didn't know it at the time, but my father was a handsome, friendly, generous, well-liked man. He was a great story teller, was a student of human nature and learned from life and thus was wiser than the average guy. For his time, he was very well educated holding both a bachelor's degree and a law degree. People respected him for what he knew, what he said and how he lived. He was good and kind man. A man of his word.
During my growing up years my father taught me to play baseball, hunt, fish, camp, use a checkbook, arm wrestle, tell a story, listen, settle an argument, debate and defend a position or a thought, tell a joke, take a joke, be a friend, love your woman, manage money, work hard, get a job, keep a job, pray, study the Bible, pick good friends, the value of a good education, how to treat my brothers and sisters, keep my word, tell the truth (More about that later.), take care of equipment, handle a gun safely, shave, be generous, shop for a car, haggle with a salesman, show respect for authority, break in a ball glove, throw a curve ball, handle disappointment, overcome adversity, keep on trying, not take myself so seriously and a multitude of things I do that I think I do naturally but he probably taught me.
My father could have been seen as a hard man. But that I mean that he had high standards and expectations and was very clear in expressing those expectations. He was demanding. He wasn't a perfectionist, but he didn't miss it by much. Perfection was not expected, but one was required to do the best one could do and then push to do a little bit better.
He was hard on himself and on those over whom he had influence. His expectations were high for those who worked for him and for his relatives – especially his children. That is, for everyone except my mother. She could do no wrong in his eyes.
Dad's high expectations of his children showed themselves most clearly on certain days and specific occasions. Report card day was almost always a gut churner for me. One "C" on the report card was justification for being grounded for the following six week grading period. It almost never failed that just about the time I finally convinced some sweet young thing to start dating me I would come up with a "C" in something unimportant like typing class. But in my dad's book, a C was a C. What I lacked in scholastic aptitude I made up in developing alternate skills. Only because it became a necessity, I became expert at sneaking out of the house. Ultimately I was forced to gain some academic skills because at our house the question was not, "What will you do after high school?" The question was, "Which college will you attend?"
My brother and I were involved in sports. Mainly baseball; we played lots of baseball most every summer day. Brother Bob and I also played some basketball and I played some football. My football career ended prematurely, like many others, due to a knee injury. Under my father's rules, if you went out for a sport you DID NOT ever, ever quit that sport. If you were cut from the team, you worked harder, got better and went back out for the team. You may never be the best player on the team but you were certainly going to be the best player you could be on that team.
My father would be labeled a stern disciplinarian, especially by today's standards. Lectures about my behavior and attitude were frequent and often heated. Dad had a temper that consistently showed itself about five minutes into his monologues addressing my failings and misbehavior. As his face turned red and his voice rose, I often lost track of what he was saying in my fascination in watching the veins in his neck and forehead expand. I was sure one of them was going to explode and shower the room with blood. If the conversation was less combative and delivered at a lower volume, I sometimes missed the gist of the lecture in my fascination with the length of ash drooping from the cigarette he was smoking. Would he, I wondered, get it to the ashtray before the ash broke loose and fell on the floor?
My parents did spank us as children. What now causes people to shrink in horror and call the authorities was a universally accepted form of discipline then. I honestly don't remember any of the spankings I received but I have no doubt I received some. I was not a rebellious child but I was not what would be termed compliant. What I do remember is a beating my father gave me during my teen years. I had gone somewhere I wasn't supposed to go and done something I wasn't supposed to do.
But that didn't earn me a beating. My lying to my parents about where I had been earned me the beating. One of the reasons I so clearly remember the beating is because it was so thorough. The main reason I remember the beating is because when dad administered it, he was not angry. In fact, he wept through the entire thing. And I hate to disappoint all of the child psychologists in the audience but I thought then and still believe now, that beating was one of the finest things my father ever did for me. Over the years it has become clearer to me that what he did was a sacrifice. It really did hurt him more than it hurt me. It was much like a doctor applying a painful remedy in an effort to save the patient's life. Remembering that I am from the South where a valid defense for murder is, "He needed killing", I thoroughly believe that I needed a beating. For those of you reading this and getting your panties in a bunch about my abusive father, you weren't there and you don't know. In fact, you have no idea how much my father loved me.
As I look back on that day and having experienced parenting myself and having spent years observing many people attempt to parent their children, it has become clear to me that being a parent is not for everyone. It seems that there are few people who have the courage and the stick-to-itiveness to be a parent. If one is going to parent, one must make some unpopular, uncomfortable, difficult decisions. It seems that many parents are more concerned with having their children's approval than doing the hard things one must do the guide them into a healthy, productive life. I believe it is a universal parenting truth that if your teenaged children like you, you are doing something terribly wrong.
I look back on my days as a parent and, like most parents, see some things I wish I had done differently. I was, compared to most other parents, a hard father. But I was generally softer and kinder than my father was. And my father was softer and kinder than his father was. I look at my son as he fathers his children and am not surprised that he is no pushover with his kids. But he is a kinder, gentler father than I was. In fact, he is an amazing father. I love to watch him interact with my grandchildren.
I find it interesting to observe the transmission of fathering and fathering techniques from generation to generation in my family. We each have done it differently. I believe each generation has done it better than the one before. But there are some common threads in our parenting. The strongest common threads are: fathers in the McConnell family love their children wholeheartedly; we expect the best of and for our children; we are willing to make those difficult, courageous decisions; we do the best we can with what we know and always want better for our children than what we had. Not bad for a bunch of rookies.
Copyright © 2012, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved
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