Bobby J, or Robert E. Jensen Jr., died in May 2005 after a lifetime of smoking cigarettes and several months of being riddled with tumors. He was one of those dads who’d infuriate you one moment, then ingratiate himself to you, just by being the salt-of-the-earth.
No matter the situation, he had a way of breaking things down to its most common of denominator. He always gave great advice, and he was always there for you, even if it was to tell you that you were full of crap. He was usually right.
When he died, I delivered the eulogy. For years before his passing – my brother and I talked about how it was inevitable, the way the man chain-smoked – I knew the hook to my speech. Who was I going to call?
My father and I had this thing. During a Mets game, at a crucial moment, I’d call and banter. Sometimes we’d swear together at our screens, simultaneously - we're talking about the Mets here, after all. And often, we’d just hang on the phone, silent, and watch the game together.
Maybe a movie we loved would come onto the screen and I’d call. Just a heads up. He’d usually already be watching. Maybe the dog show would be on the MSG network. He loved the doggies. Or during holidays, one of us would call the other with a reminder that the Charlie Brown special was on. We hated missing them.
Then he passed away. Who was I going to call? Charles Turner.
Charles had me by a few years, but his kids were about my kids’ ages. After a rocky and somewhat humorous initial meeting, during which we Alpha-dog barked at each other while coaching at opposite ends of a youth basketball game, we ended up on the same sideline. Charles and I bounced thoughts off one another on a regular basis - about coaching, about kids, about life - and I hope I provided as much of a sounding board for him as he did for me. He was every bit the salt Bobby J was. Then Charles succumbed after a 15-round barnburner with cancer.
So today, Father’s Day 2009, Dad and Charles are right here, their words, their theories and their antics fresh and foremost.
The following was first published in mid-December of 2004. The headline read “My son’s brush with the A-word, and a valuable lesson learned.” It was the epitome of Bobby J and, I suspect, Charles may have agreed with the overall tenet.
My son knows the A-word. And that’s apparently a problem.I’m sure I’m to blame, or maybe it’s my father. Probably both.
From the time the boy was an infant, he’d sit near enough to the two of us as we suffered through Giants football games that he engrained some of the words kids shouldn’t learn until they’re old enough to recite the entire starting offensive lineup.
But as it goes, it’s not a perfect world and, invariably, the Giants lose and things like the A-word and various other lettered words slip through. The upside of all this is that my first-grade son is a fantastic reader. Fact is, just a few weeks ago as my wife and I were seated in tiny chairs across a tiny desk from our son’s teacher, she gave a glowing report. She’d love to have 30 just like him in her class, she told us.
So last week when my son skulked into the kitchen with something to tell about his day at school, it was a little out of character. “He has something to tell you,” my wife said, continuing, “Tell Daddy what happened today.”
He said he didn’t want to, then he started to cry a bit. He was clearly shaken. We went to the living room, sat down and he started his story. “I was in line at lunch,” he said, “and Colin was saying he knew what the A-word was.” Then, he said, another friend mentioned that he, too, knew the A-word. My son, not to be left out, bragged he knew it as well.
“Then what is it?” asked one of the boys, to which my son provided the proof. The problem was, there was a teacher standing behind him and she nabbed all three culprits. The story went that this particular teacher alerted my son’s teacher of the three hoodlums’ transgression. She’d be calling all the boys’ parents that evening, she told them. Most upsetting in all this for my son was that he would potentially "lose Reindeer Day,” a special day set aside at school to draw, read about and construct in craft fashion this season’s most popular mammal.
While my son and I still sat on the couch, my wife hit “play” on the answering machine, and there it was. A message from my son’s teacher, who said she’d call back later. I went to a meeting that evening and missed the call-back, but when I got home, I was briefed. Our son’s retelling had been on the mark. All but for the part where, my wife said, the boy’s teacher made it a point to say that she was following through with all three boys’ parents - because she said she would. My translation? Even the teacher realized that she was committing at least a minor overreaction.
Much more easily than calling kids’ parents to tell them the boys know and used the A-word, she could have taken them aside and mentioned that “we don’t use that word, or words like it in school.” Over time, if it had become a chronic problem, I’d have expected a call. But I already knew my son knows the A-word and some others you shouldn’t use in school, and as I did that evening on the couch, I’ve always told him that, yes, these are words you should not use. There are always better alternatives.
If this isn’t a situation derived from frustrating moments watching football, it might be my wife’s fault. To explain, I like hot and spicy food, so my wife brought home a canister of hot and spicy mixed nuts. On the can was a depiction of a donkey, sometimes known as an A-word. On the can was the slogan, “(A-word)-kickin’ something-something.” My son read it. A few days later he was nailed for knowing it.
I’m not so bothered that my boy knows some of the typically unmentionable words. I’m happy to provide him with guidelines and a few realistic lines you’re not supposed to cross when it comes to the A-word and its cousins. He’s a good boy and I chalk up the lunch-line muttering to a moment of boys being boys. Testing the water. Coming of age. If I’m wrong, then this is certainly my father’s fault.
When I was a kid, someone knocked on our front door. They had a petition for my father to sign. They wanted to ban from the Susquehanna Valley High School library Kurt Vonnegut's “Slaughterhouse Five.” Dad asked if they’d read the book. Not so surprisingly, as such things typically go, they had not. My father had. They left without a signature.
I told my father about the A-word incident. He countered by telling me he’d recently purchased a new Oxford dictionary. His Webster’s version, he said, had been bothering him for a while. When he'd bought that particular dictionary, he mentioned it to a friend. This friend, another word guy, asked my father a few questions.
“Does it have the F-word?” My father said he didn’t know. “Does it have the MF-word?” Didn’t know. “How about the CS-word?” Same answer.
It turns out, Webster failed to include those words. The Oxford version, however, contains them. They’re words that my father said he doesn’t necessarily need or want to use on any regular basis (although he does, as needed). He said he just felt better knowing they're there.
“I’m not sure if that makes sense,” he said, “and if you don’t understand, then I don’t know of a better way to explain it.”
“No, I agree with you,” I told him.
“Good.”
It’s along the same lines as someone banning a book from a library. The Webster people, or people putting pressure on Webster people, at some point decided they’d “keep us safe” from the “bad words.”
“This obsession with words - there aren’t any bad words,” Dad said. “Just lousy people who use certain words to hurt others.” That sentiment might be a more valuable lesson for a child than to place a moratorium on words. Even words beginning with the letter A.
Charles would routinely remind me, after I'd rant about people, in general, "Steve, can you control what other people do?"
"No."
"Who can you control?"
"I get it, I get it."
I hope more kids get to be influenced by people like Bobby J and Charles Turner. These two men might come from different angles, but likely would end up at the same point on most issues.
I was fortunate to be able to call both of them.
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Happy Father’s Day to my friends and family …
Happy Father’s Day to my friends and family …
* Matt, Donald and Matthew
* Mario and Michael
* Hank
* Mike and Scott
* Tom, Bob, Bill, Bernie, Randy and Tom
* Victor, Art and Peter
* Wes, Tim, Derek and Jose
* Brook, Pop, Dane and Scott
* Mike, Christian, Randy, John and Bill
And to every other Dad who’s enjoyed this day.
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