A teacher to the end

While cleaning out her attic recently, my sister found an old letter that my father had written to his mother-in-law about the birth of her new grandson, me.

There was something nice about reading about my own birth through the eyes and handwriting of a man who would become my greatest influencer.

He wrote, “Well Mother, you are a grandmother again, and this time, it’s a boy!  7lbs 2oz, healthy but not too pretty.” 

For whatever reason, I have been told that my face was “smushed” at the beginning, and it looked like it had been run over by a large farm tractor.

My dad was never one to mince words, so neither will I. 

My father, Henri Jourdan, died this past Monday night.

I am finding it hard to focus with thousands of memories swirling through my head the entire day; therefore, I decided to put some on paper to get them out.  Thank you in advance for being my shrink for a few minutes.

I remember him teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler.  He would run behind me holding onto the back part of the banana seat of my red Schwinn.  At first he would not let me fall, no matter how badly I peddled.  Then he forced me to fall to teach me that falling wasn’t that bad.  Those who never fall never do anything, he would say.

My dad watched for hours and helped me tie a Windsor knot, standing behind me and putting it on my neck so I could learn to put the thing on without strangling myself.

He taught me to drive and to shave.  In that order.  It was a major embarrassment to him that his fair haired son could never grow a full beard.

He showed me the benefits of living life with passion; fast, with strong opinions and loudly.  He was even loud when apologizing when he was wrong.  He taught me how a man says he is sorry without saying it.  It sounds like this:

“Did you see the Met game last night?”

After I moved out of the house, most of his lessons stopped.  He figured that life itself would be the best teacher. But when my wife and I had our first child, he threw one out that made me finally understand what he was doing all along.

My father felt that his purpose was to teach his boy how to be a man.

He told me, “Danny, now that you have a kid, nobody cares about your little inconveniences.  Take care of your family.  You can figure it out.  I gave you a good name, don’t screw it up.”

Here’s the tip:  The best way to teach your son how to be a man, a good man, is to be one yourself.

Thanks, Dad.

Sincerely,            

Henri Jourdan’s grateful son, Danny