So who's your daddy?
It seems a fair question to ask, this being Father's Day and all. I'm not sure where the expression came from - there are all sorts of Internet conversations about its derivation, without really getting to the bottom of it. But today it deserves closer inspection.
I point here to a song from my youth called "Time of the Season." The English group that recorded it, the Zombies, had disbanded by the time the song was released as a single and reached Billboard's Top 5 in 1969. Baby boomers will remember it, along with anyone who has listened to classic rock or paid attention to the movie soundtracks of "Good Morning Vietnam," "Shanghai Knights," or "Awakenings," to mention a few.
The lyrics go like this:
"What's your name?" (What's your name?)
"Who's your daddy?" (Who's your daddy? He rich?)
"Is he rich like me?"
Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, my daddy is Eugene Lawrence Smith, an 85-year-old retired truck driver, devoted husband of 61 years, father of five children, and proud grandfather and great-grandfather several times over.
"Smitty," as all his buddies called him, comes from strong German stock. He was the hardest-working man I've ever known, and one of the strongest, no doubt leaving others to wonder where in the heck I came from. (I could blame my mother's Norwegian genes, but where would that get me?) To this day I have never taken him in arm wrestling. It's true he has been on kidney dialysis since his heart operation last November, so this might be my best chance, but I'm not going to risk it. No, sir.
Smitty was also one of the best card players around, and his luck with the dice was legendary. On those memorable occasions when he brought me with him into the Walgert Hotel's Tap Room, I would hear hearty laughter and learn stories about him and lessons in life that serve me to this day. And he would always buy a few rounds with his winnings.
Dad bought me my first baseball glove (a Gus Bell model), taught me how to catch fish and handle a shotgun. He patiently instructed me on just where to put English on a cue ball so I could bank the eight ball into any pocket on the pool table. He taught me all the card tricks and strategies involved in Dirty Clubs, Merry Widow and Sheepshead. All of these were essential lessons for a kid to learn growing up in Wisconsin, and Dad taught his only son well.
He tried to teach me how to shovel snow, mow the grass, cut and pile firewood and paint the house, but somehow I never learned to excel at these activities. (I did get better at mowing grass after he finally purchased a riding mower.)
He taught me how to drive in an ice-blue 1959 Pontiac Catalina, slipping in a brief lecture about the facts of life during an uncomfortable seven-mile stretch between Blair and Whitehall. (With both hands clenched on the wheel I wasn't able to scribble notes, but I remembered the most important stuff.)
He taught me there is no stronger or more magical bond in sports than Cheesehead Nation and our beloved Green Bay Packers. We watched the Ice Bowl together, in the comfort of our living room.
And today, because the post-Brett Favre era hasn't quite begun, Dad will settle into his favorite chair and watch the Milwaukee Brewers and the Minnesota Twins - a matchup we enjoyed years ago at the old Metropolitan Stadium. And a grandson or granddaughter will surely learn a lesson about baseball, and maybe about life. Which is the whole point.
That's my daddy.
Jim Smith is the managing editor of the Bradenton Herald. He and Executive Editor Joan Krauter (jkrauter@ bradenton.com) write a "Letter from the Editor" on Sundays.
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