Mind Your Manners … Ah, Shut Up!

Anachronism. It’s a ten-dollar word that seems out of place in a column like this. But it’s the perfect word to describe this week’s subject, which also seems misplaced in today’s in-your-face society where kindness is synonymous with weakness. We’re referring to the archaic notion of practicing good manners. “Good manners” is an anachronism. It’s square. It’s a sissy. It’s out of place in today’s smash-mouth society.

Be an anachronism

Dad, if you truly want to make a difference in your teenager’s life and leave a legacy that ought to be carried forth, think back to another era when being polite to others was the rule of the day. If you can instill that value in your children against the powerful tide of today’s brand of human interaction and reaction, you yourself will be considered an anachronism—albeit a welcomed one.

Our many faces

As parents, this may be our greatest challenge because all of us live in a society that wears many masks. While we are concerned about our kids bullying or being bullied, we grown-ups get into fistfights in the bleachers. While we try to teach morals and values and decency, we are bombarded with stories of “responsible” adults having sexual liaisons of all descriptions. While we preach to our sons and daughters that it is wrong to cheat, we bypass the high road in order to enhance our pocketbook or position or personal standing.

Hit the reset button

Dad, it will take all the strength you have to hit the reset button, re-evaluate and talk to your teenagers about practicing good manners and showing respect for others. Undoubtedly you will get push-back.

Wink-wink

The campaign season will soon be over. We can hear the collective sigh of relief. If ever there were examples of how not to treat people, this is it. Politicians on both sides demonstrate once again that to win, one must go on the attack and get down and dirty. Yes (wink-wink), we know … it’s the way the game is played. Once the campaign is over, the contenders will shake hands and return to their corner until the next round. Good heavens, will we ever stop playing games and reclaim our humanity? Perhaps we don’t remember how.

Back to basics

Dad, teach your kids that winning and being a winner are worlds apart. Start a “manners movement.” Talk to your teenagers about the simple virtues of saying “please” and “thank you.” Teach them that a “thank-you note” is preferable to a “thank-you tweet.” Instill in them the idea that others come first, whether it’s opening a door for someone or denying themselves to give someone else a boost. Tell them tales of a time when young people respected their elders, emulated their school teachers, looked up to their employer, treated public property as their own—and treated one another as they themselves wished to be treated. What a concept!

Oh, and dad (wink-wink), you’ll have to model those attributes, too.

 

Busted in the Balcony

Tim Hogan and I messed around a lot in the church balcony during the worship service. We threw paper wads and small paper aircraft during the prayer when most eyes were closed. Made crude noises. Timed each other to see how long we could hold our breath. Drew unflattering pictures of Patty Winder along the margin of the church bulletin. While others prayed, we struggled to suppress our laughter.

One Sunday morning, our suppressed laughter caught the attention of my dad, the Reverend C.P. Tozer, who was in the middle of his homily. Tim and I didn’t notice that the Reverend had stopped preaching and was looking in our direction. Suddenly, there was thunder in the sanctuary.

“You two boys get up and come down here and sit in the front row,” my dad commanded, testing the capacity of the sound system.

My heart shifted into a new gear. As Tim and I made the long march down the back stairs, through the doors of the sanctuary and down the aisle, I knew that life as I had known it was over. This was the dawn of a new era. It was called death.

The church was silent as we neared the front. I could feel every eye boring into my sweating backside as we passed by. When we reached the front and sat down, my dad glared down at us momentarily, cleared his throat and commenced with his message.

I sat there through the rest of the service wondering what would happen when I got home—after the Reverend shed his clerical garb and became dad again. I spied Patty sitting up in the choir loft. As much as I hated that superior smirk on her face, I also envied her. After church, she would run home, eat lunch, go outside and play, watch Lassie on TV, make popcorn during Ed Sullivan, then go to bed with a gentle goodnight kiss from her mom.

I, on the other hand, would never again eat my favorite foods, watch TV or see my parents smile. Oh how I hated Patty. And Lassie. And Tim Hogan! It was all his fault anyway.

After church, I never heard another word about it. I didn’t know my dad could be so cruel.

10 Things Not on My Bucket List

Being inserted into an MRI tube … again

Skydiving

Becoming a spokesman for Comcast

Running in a marathon

Eating oysters

Attending anything that has to do with British royalty

Being an applauder at the NYSE closing bell

Visiting the new sculpture of Rush Limbaugh at the Hall of Famous Missourians at the state Capitol

Learning how to crochet

Traveling thousands of miles to see a likeness of Jesus on toast

Hang on, Dad—It Gets Better

If you’re a young father with adolescent or teenage children, then you are in the midst of the typical headaches and heartaches (oh yes, and the joys) of parenthood. You are trying your best to cope. You are often biting your lip, muttering under your breath, restraining yourself from saying or doing anything that you might regret.

Good luck. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You will regret much of what you do and say. Because you’re human, there will be moments when you let something trip off your tongue that you wish you could take back. You’ll be—and you probably already have been—faced with instances when you took hold of a son or daughter’s arm a little too aggressively, squeezed too hard, maybe gave it an extra tug before you caught yourself and regained composure.

Magic-moment memories

We recall instances when we wish we could go back in time. Today, we have the advantage of hindsight. Reflecting on the past has its upside and its downside. We think back to those magic moments when we connected with our teenagers, when they listened to our advice, when our counsel was actually on target—and everything turned out well. (Ah, we were so wise.) The outcome may have been accidental or due to the grace of a higher power; nonetheless, it felt good when all was right with the world.

Those other memories

We also recall those times when we were not friends with our kids, when we felt unappreciated, taken for granted or simply dismissed. Sometimes we deserved it. (Ah, we were so stupid.) At the time, however, we faced our kids on the battlefield of egos and control. It did not feel good to be disrespected and brushed off. After all, we were dads working hard at being dads. We demanded respect. Looking back, we realize that our teenagers were working just as hard at being teenagers. Sometimes they also felt brushed off and disrespected.

Here’s what we’ve learned, over and over and over. No one talks on a battlefield. There’s just a lot of yelling and hurting.

We share these reflections with young dads to reassure you that, in most cases, you and your kids will come through those turbulent years with a greater appreciation, understanding and, yes, respect for one another. Time finally heals most wounds and shuts the door on the past.  

Some sermons stuck, some stunk

It does an older dad good to hear his son say something that reflects a core value that once was the subject of too many parental sermons. Or to hear his daughter condemn behavior for which she herself was once admonished. We have learned that most—not everything—of what we tried to teach and instill in our kids actually stuck. And we confess that not everything we preached should have stuck. In fact, it stunk.

We are heartened by the fact that our efforts were not in vain, that our harsh words didn’t cut too deeply, that our lack of patience and quick temper were proof that we were simply human beings—not monsters.

Take heart, dad. That day will come.

(From “Dad2Dad,” a column for dads about dads from dads, by Tom Tozer and Bill Black, which appears in several newspapers across Tennessee.)

In Honor of Mom

With all the discussion about the role of Moms and motherhood in this year’s political circus, maybe it’s appropriate that an admiring dad just say it: In my opinion, there is no harder job in the universe than being a caring, nurturing stay-at-home mother.

The ‘Kansas Experiment’

Tom remembers only too well when his daughters were ages 2 and 4, and he tried to fill Mom’s shoes. Let’s be clear up front. (Now we really do sound like politicians!) Tom is not looking for accolades. He walked into the job quite willingly, thinking that this would be a great opportunity to stay home and write while his wife slayed the dragons in the 8 to 5 jungle. It required moving the family from Ohio to Kansas. It meant selling one house and buying another. It necessitated living in a townhouse for a month in a new city surrounded by strangers and anonymity. And yet, Tom was pumped. He looked forward to a new life of independence away from the demands and irritants of traditional office life.

Two-year … sentence?

It must be apparent by now that this was not a two-day or two-week babysitting stint. Tom’s newly found independent life—his Walden Pond existence—would be a two-year run.

Not to seem ungrateful for the opportunity to bond with his daughters, Tom confesses that there were some wonderful moments. However, he has hand-picked the word “moment.” Kansas was a tough, exhausting, maddening, hair-pulling and incredibly eye-opening experience that led to self-discovery and a heap of humility.

No great American novel

It wasn’t too long after settling into their new home that several realizations struck Tom between his dark-encircled eyes. He was not going to get much writing done. Food did not magically appear in the ‘frig. The girls were much too young to cook their own meals. When the younger daughter yelled, “Dad, I’m done!” … it did not mean she was finished coloring and wanted to show him her work of art. Clothes got dirty barely out of the drawer, and the hamper filled up faster than the kitchen sink that finally spilled over because dad was busy collecting green beans off the carpet. (He also discovered pieces of hotdog under the table from two nights ago.)

Ah, the life of a writer.

A grueling gift

Some things transcend politics and egos and posturing and competing for the gold. Being a stay-at-home parent—a Mom in most cases—is a gift beyond measure. But it’s also grueling, mostly lonely and often thankless work. And if Mom has additional roles outside the home, there’s no way to thank her enough.

Dad, you and the kids should try to thank Mom anyway. Thank her for the Mom she was and still is. She will appreciate it. Anyone—male or female—who belittles the role of a stay-at-home Mom has only been a babysitter.

Parting thoughts

Every husband ought to be a full-time Mr. Mom for at least one year. The family finances may take a hit, but the return on time invested will make up for it. Second, parenting should be kept out of politics. And finally, the Tozer girls survived the two years in Kansas, and Tom couldn’t wait to get back to the office! 

(This is an example of the weekly column under the banner “Dad2Dad” that Bill Black and Tom Tozer write for several newspapers in Tennessee. It comes out on Tuesdays in The Daily News Journal. This one will appear May 8. Feel free to visit dnj.com.)

If Farts Were Visible

Imagine for a moment that farts were visible. What if every time you let one escape, a green stream of vapor wafted from your hind quarters and floated into the air. Would this not change life as we know it?

It’s one thing to silently expel a little gas in a crowd of people. Whether it’s aromatic or odorless, you can escape undetected because no one can identify the offender. What about when you’re walking by yourself down the street or mowing your lawn, playing golf or hanging clothes out to dry and you relieve a little pressure in the privacy of your own remoteness. Imagine, in that instance, that what was once invisible is now betrayed by a little green swoosh that curly-cues its way upward from your tailpipe. Gone are the days of raising a stink while maintaining anonymity. Enter a new world of proof beyond a reasonable break in the wind! Hey, pal, I saw you fart! In fact, I took a picture of it with my cell phone!

But visible farts transcend mere identification of the farter. After all, we all know we fart. But we also know we all refuse to accept that we all fart. Of course we expect fraternity guys to fart. (Those guys eventually mature, learn to fart silently and become golfers or Rotary Club officers.) We know that the work crew standing idly around the “Men at Work” sign fart. Even if their farts were visible, most of us would expect and ignore the green haze over their heads. (They will never be Rotarians.)

As I live and breathe fresh air, however, no pretty young woman in her prom dress farts. Cheerleaders would never think of letting one escape, not even during a back flip. A teacher does not fart during class, nor does a preacher leave one during communion or while baptizing a baby. (Babies receive forgiveness no matter what or when or where—solid, liquid or gas.) Neither the Queen nor First Lady farts. No one lets out even a squeaker on a first date. And farting in a library is just wrong in any civilized society.

What would it do to our relationships, our friendships, our business negotiations, our library membership, my god, our debutante balls, if a green swoosh were evidence of a silent killer while walking solo across the boardroom or dance floor or the United Nations plaza? Would a young man ever again want to touch his prom date if her white shoes disappeared in a green fog? Would students ever again take their teacher seriously if a silent plume reared its ugly self while Mr. Green was pointing out Iraq on the map? Imagination the ramifications:

There would never be another stage play (unless it was Beckett).

There would never be a second date?

Cheerleading would be outlawed.

The current administration would enact NFLB legislation in our public schools.

The billion-dollar deal would collapse.

No one would ever vote for anything or anyone again.

Pornography would disappear.

Electronic news media would shutdown.

There would be no heroes. No one could idolize the Fantastic Farting Four!

Ships would not sail. International trade would cease.

Space exploration would never again be funded.

People would have to worship in their own homes.

Peace talks would fizzle.

So would war. (You might die laughing at each other, however.)

The only activity that would not be fazed would be the ubiquitous state carnival. Natural bad air is part of the carny charm. It’s a contractual thing.

Dear Hand Raiser,

It’s not that I’m making fun, but I have to wonder why you find it necessary to raise your arms and bless the air with your palms facing out while you’re singing a hymn. I know I shouldn’t judge. I should be there to praise God as I choose, and I should mind my own business and let you praise God as you choose. But I just can’t help but mind your business. Are your outstretched arms antennae that you hope will pick up a providential signal from the most high? Or are you simply trying to impress everyone behind you with your piousness? Why do you gesticulate so? Seems to me it’s a little like making a public show of prayer instead of going inside a closet and praying in private. Are you trying to set an example for us stiff and stilted heathens behind you? Honestly, I do try to avert my eyes and focus on my relationship with my creator. But my eyes are drawn to your contortions. Would you please do me a favor—and I hope I’m not asking too much. Would you please stop doing that so that I can worship. If you must flail and sway to the music, go to a rock concert.

Reverently yours,

P.S. On second thought, this is a rock concert. Hallelujah, brother!