By G.C. Stoppel
A recent TV insurance commercial shows an older man trying to help young people not turn into their parents. Good luck with that one. Why run from their attributes and quirks when it gives you instant status as an eccentric?
British psychologists wrote a paper not long ago saying on average all of us carry forward some 20 to 30 traits from our parents. In turn, we’ll pass them on and our heirs will turn into us.
I catch myself sounding uncomfortably like my father. “Be careful,” he’d say whenever I walked out the door.
Being careful and not taking risks was a virtue. The world was dangerous: shoe-pounding Russians (Khrushchev at the U.N.) who wanted to bury us and had the bomb to do it for instance. Father walked me to school once to point out the fallout shelters en route.
Communists, tornados, blizzards, juvenile delinquents and drunk drivers … To make the world all the more dangerous, rock ‘n’ roll music and the champion of evil Elvis, followed by those insects who invaded from England.
“Do you really think telling me to be careful will make me more careful than I already am?” I wanted to ask but didn’t as talking back to an adult was rude and not safe to do. Now I find myself cautioning the same things.
There has to be more to life than always being careful. That’s why I like Garrison Keillor’s closing line, “Be well, do good work and keep in touch.” Or the closing from the Red Green Show where Red would say, “Keep your stick on the ice. I’m pulling for you; we’re all in this together.”
Those are positive and encouraging lines, but I never remember them in time to use them so I just follow Father’s lead and tell people to be careful.
For years I heard Father’s dire warnings of investing in the stock market. I understand because The Olds lived through the Great Depression and World War II. The only safe thing to do with money was never spend it and put it into a reliable passbook savings account. I embraced and internalized that message too.
The other day I walked into the bank with his old, big green canvas deposit bank under my arm. The teller looked at it and me twice and finally asked, “Where did you find that?”
I explained it belong to my father who passed away over a quarter of a century ago, and it was still in good shape. Just to tease her I said, “I’m sorry, but I left my passbook at home. Can you just enter it into the ledger book?”
I’m not ashamed to admit if I see a penny on the ground I’ll pick it up. I don’t go in for this business about it being lucky, although I believe in a modified form of luck: The harder I work the luckier I am. Picking up a penny is a little bonus to be added to a collection of change I’ll put into the bank bag and add to my non-passbook savings account. That is sort of great luck in this era of inflation.
Turning into my parents? You mean doing things like going to a restaurant shortly after they open for the evening because we want to enjoy our dinner before it gets too noisy? Or wincing when a perky member of the wait staff practically pats me on the head for being such a good boy by making such an “excellent” choice off the menu. She did it again after I said I would have water with my meal.
When Perky returned within seconds after putting the plate in front of me to ask “how are the first bites?” I said I hadn’t tried the food yet; I was still cleaning the cutlery with my napkin. I’m sure the dishwasher had done a good job, but The Olds never took chances and lived long lives. I do it just because I want to be careful.
I still have Uncle Corwin’s storm coat, a heavy wool number with wide lapels. There’s no reason to get rid of it because it will never wear out. He died in 1950, and a Truman campaign pin was still on the lapel from two years earlier. Maybe he was saving it for 1952.
So far all threads and buttons are present and accounted for so I sometimes wear it. The Olds’ admonition of “waste not, want not” echoes through the brain when I do so.
Turning into my parents? Who would object? Is it because I use phrases like “long distance call” when “dialing” someone on the telephone? Or if someone is repetitive I’m known to say that they are “stuck like a broken record” which makes no sense to someone born after the age of 8-tracks and cassettes. It confuses the next generations.
I would be happy to return to my parents’ era, especially when Madame asks me to pick up laundry detergent with a specific name and I’m confronted by a full aisle of that brand divided into 20 subsections.
I asked the laundry detergent department’s deputy assistant manager about why they carried so many varieties. “Choices” was the basic response. That fellow might go far and in another decade or so get promoted to full department manager because of his diplomatic answers.
Frankly, I don’t think all those choices are a necessity. It takes too much time trying to debate whether she wanted me to get the plastic jug with Alpine Valley Scent or Tropical Breezes. I know she likes avocados, but I am not certain I want my socks smelling like a bowl of guacamole.
As for the Alpine Valley Scent, we all know those mountains have lots of wild animals and not a latrine among them. I’m not so certain of that aroma. It bring a whole new meaning to the old adage of “better living through chemistry.” There is elegance in simplicity even when it comes to laundry soap. I went for the jug that said “traditional” on the front.
On the subject of laundry, The Olds were well ahead of their time. They had an environmentally-friendly clothes drier that used both wind and solar power. It was so effective there was no need for Alpine Valley Scent detergent. It was a clothesline.
A few generations ago these were common. Then came the electric or gas dryer and clotheslines were put into retirement.
Sure enough, they’re back again because so many people want to do their part for the environment. It’s also a stab against galloping inflation. You know, waste not, want not.
