SC&A Author Speaks
There were a couple of comments left today, that jumped right off the screen at me.
There was a man, whom I got to know in my youth and whom I still know. I shall call him Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith was a milkman- not the ideal profession for anyone seeking advancement in the 60's and 70's. He was a widower, left with 3 daughters to raise on his own.
Mr. Smith dutifully completed his rounds, everyday, delivering milk and eggs, cheese and butter, to those who felt sorry enough for him to pay the extra few cents so he could make a living and raise his daughters. My parents were some of those people, I thought, that felt 'sorry' for Mr. Smith.
My father always spoke highly of Mr. Smith, but we never paid attention, nor even cared. That Mr. Smith would have a huge impact on my life would be apparent to me, years later.
Mr. Smith moved his himself and his daughters to a home (a rather broken down hovel, in reality) near the dairy- about 2 miles away. He moved there because he could walk to work and and save bus fare, or 'carfare' as he used to say.
The money he saved would be used to buy his daughters new clothes, because he knew that as they got older, they would be ashamed of having to wear hand-me-downs all the time. There would come a time when the girls were older, they would want and need 'party dresses' and 'party shoes' as he called them, to go out and to attend dances. "I can't have my daughters embarrassed when they go out," he'd say.
Of course, he always encouraged his daughters to do their schoolwork and made no allowances for slacking off. They were going to college, he always said. He meant it.
Rain or shine, sleet or snow, Mr Smith would get up before dawn and walk to the dairy, two miles away, to begin his daily ritual and deliver milk to an ever dwindling client roster. At the end of the day, Mr Smith would leave his milk truck at the dairy and walk home, with some eggs and cheese. Many years later, his daughters would tell us that he rarely had meat or chicken- that was reserved for them. His daughters recall how they would wash their clothes in the washer- but rarely used the dryer. Utilities cost money.
Although his health deteriorated, Mr Smith kept walking to and from work, keeping his customers happy and keeping those daily few pennies to be spent on his daughters. Mr Smith delivered milk for over 30 years. Mr Smith walked to and from work for about 20 of those years.
Well, his daughters did go to college- all of them, on scholarship- and they all graduated, with advanced degrees. They are now all professionals.
Mr Smith's daughters bought him a condo- a small place, really, and outfitted him with new furniture and clothes. He can't work anymore, because his health won't allow him that- and besides, he's a lot older now.
He argued bitterly with his daughters when they wanted to buy him a place- he wanted them to be secure and put their money away, save it. He did not realize, or choose to realize, how secure his daughters were, because he chose to walk to and from work, every day, for over 20 years. More importantly, they were secure because he did the best he could raising his beautiful daughters.
My father once asked Mr Smith how he managed, all those years, to raise his daughters the way he did. The reply he got was simple.
"They are my daughters. I love them. I had to do it."
Through good times and tough times, those words, from one of the wisest and most honorable men I have known, kept me doggedly going. Like my friend Andrew, the impact Mr Smith had on me is immeasurable.
It matters not where you come from, only where you choose to be.
Two of Mr Smith's daughters are happily married, with families of their own. He is an adored grandfather. The youngest, 'daddy's girl,' is still single.
Some say girls marry men like their fathers. My father has said Mr Smith's youngest daughter won't have an easy time finding someone who can measure up.
My dad is right.
There was a man, whom I got to know in my youth and whom I still know. I shall call him Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith was a milkman- not the ideal profession for anyone seeking advancement in the 60's and 70's. He was a widower, left with 3 daughters to raise on his own.
Mr. Smith dutifully completed his rounds, everyday, delivering milk and eggs, cheese and butter, to those who felt sorry enough for him to pay the extra few cents so he could make a living and raise his daughters. My parents were some of those people, I thought, that felt 'sorry' for Mr. Smith.
My father always spoke highly of Mr. Smith, but we never paid attention, nor even cared. That Mr. Smith would have a huge impact on my life would be apparent to me, years later.
Mr. Smith moved his himself and his daughters to a home (a rather broken down hovel, in reality) near the dairy- about 2 miles away. He moved there because he could walk to work and and save bus fare, or 'carfare' as he used to say.
The money he saved would be used to buy his daughters new clothes, because he knew that as they got older, they would be ashamed of having to wear hand-me-downs all the time. There would come a time when the girls were older, they would want and need 'party dresses' and 'party shoes' as he called them, to go out and to attend dances. "I can't have my daughters embarrassed when they go out," he'd say.
Of course, he always encouraged his daughters to do their schoolwork and made no allowances for slacking off. They were going to college, he always said. He meant it.
Rain or shine, sleet or snow, Mr Smith would get up before dawn and walk to the dairy, two miles away, to begin his daily ritual and deliver milk to an ever dwindling client roster. At the end of the day, Mr Smith would leave his milk truck at the dairy and walk home, with some eggs and cheese. Many years later, his daughters would tell us that he rarely had meat or chicken- that was reserved for them. His daughters recall how they would wash their clothes in the washer- but rarely used the dryer. Utilities cost money.
Although his health deteriorated, Mr Smith kept walking to and from work, keeping his customers happy and keeping those daily few pennies to be spent on his daughters. Mr Smith delivered milk for over 30 years. Mr Smith walked to and from work for about 20 of those years.
Well, his daughters did go to college- all of them, on scholarship- and they all graduated, with advanced degrees. They are now all professionals.
Mr Smith's daughters bought him a condo- a small place, really, and outfitted him with new furniture and clothes. He can't work anymore, because his health won't allow him that- and besides, he's a lot older now.
He argued bitterly with his daughters when they wanted to buy him a place- he wanted them to be secure and put their money away, save it. He did not realize, or choose to realize, how secure his daughters were, because he chose to walk to and from work, every day, for over 20 years. More importantly, they were secure because he did the best he could raising his beautiful daughters.
My father once asked Mr Smith how he managed, all those years, to raise his daughters the way he did. The reply he got was simple.
"They are my daughters. I love them. I had to do it."
Through good times and tough times, those words, from one of the wisest and most honorable men I have known, kept me doggedly going. Like my friend Andrew, the impact Mr Smith had on me is immeasurable.
It matters not where you come from, only where you choose to be.
Two of Mr Smith's daughters are happily married, with families of their own. He is an adored grandfather. The youngest, 'daddy's girl,' is still single.
Some say girls marry men like their fathers. My father has said Mr Smith's youngest daughter won't have an easy time finding someone who can measure up.
My dad is right.
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