My Dad

Dr. Gordon A. Taylor Sr., 1914-1988

Were he alive today, Dad would be celebrating his 97th birthday this week. I was lucky in life, my dad was my best friend. It was always that way. It just happened. There's a word "simpatico" which means the special relationship that exists between people when words need not be spoken, yet there is a level of peace and compassion that goes beyond mere words. We shared that feeling.

Dr. Gordon A. Taylor Sr. was always Mr. Personality—he laughed, he told stories, he entertained my friends. He was a man of the people and fun to be around. Few people knew that beneath that friendly exterior was a man in dire, and I mean dire, financial straits. My earliest memories include our family's acute, persistent money problems. Every month was a financial nightmare at the Taylor household. The mortgage, four sons, school clothes, car payments, taxes, bills, bills, bills—there was NEVER enough money, and our situation grew more desperate each year.

My dad was not a lazy or unskilled man, just unlucky. He was an optometrist who professionally just couldn't make the transition from rural Galena to upscale, suburban Hinsdale. For the Taylors there were no vacations, no new cars, no new clothes, and leftovers night after night plus the constant threatening calls from bill collectors. This was the 1950s, so there was no credit card maneuvering in play here. He borrowed from everyone—banks, savings and loans, and finally relatives. He even borrowed money from his high school and college friends—$100 here, $200 there, just to keep us going. I knew these people. I spent time in their homes, played with their children. I will always remember who they were and what they did for us during our financial odyssey. In spite of their help, it was not enough.

I came home from junior high one day to find neighbors gathered in our front yard. It was not for a picnic. The local utility company was using a huge backhoe to dig up our front yard so they could disconnect our water main for non-payment. There was both pain and embarrassment on Mom's face when she asked if I had any money? I went to my bedroom where I kept my life savings from babysitting and mowing lawns ($34.75) safely hidden in a Skippy peanut butter jar. The water bill was $34.35, so Mom threw the jar at the poor workers and screamed at them to leave and by the way, keep the change. It was one of the very few times I ever saw Mom lose her composure. The memory of that event is forever burnt into my psyche. Things were terrible, but they got worse.

That same evening Dad came home from work with a U-Haul. The sadness and pain in his eyes was deep and profound as he announced in an almost inaudible whisper, "We have to leave tonight." We all stood there in silence. We had not seen it coming. Dad went on, "The bank wants us out tomorrow. No more reprieves, no more loans, no more delays, we're leaving!" We all had tears in our eyes as Mom asked, "Where are we going?" The reply was, "I don't know" and with that we packed up our meager belongings.

Dad felt like such a failure. It was clear by his every move. His back was bent over, his eyes were red, he wouldn't look any of us in the eye. He appeared gaunt, his spirit broken by a cascade of economic calamities. At 10 p.m. the job was done, and we were prepared to leave. As we started out the back door for the last time, the phone rang. The phone rang! Who could possibly be calling? Dad picked up the receiver the rest of us went outside to wait and wait and wait. It seemed like forever. Finally, Dad came out and quietly announced "I got some money." We unloaded the U-Haul and never spoke of that night again—never! That was clearly the worst of it, the nadir of our financial nightmare if you will. We still had some bad times, but after that horrible day, things gradually got better for our family.

Dad held down three jobs; Mom, two; and we four boys did our part as well. Gradually Dad paid everyone back. It took 20 years, but he did it—the banks, the savings and loans, our relatives, and finally his friends. In some cases his friends said they didn't want the money back, they were happy to help but Dad insisted.

Near the end of his life (June 1988), Dad and I were having lunch together which we tried to do every time I got back home. Table 23 at the Cypress Restaurant in Hinsdale was our little piece of paradise. This would be a lunch like no other in my life before or since. I mustered up my courage and finally asked THE QUESTION. "Dad, why did you pay everyone back?" He certainly didn't have to. He and Mom never had much of their own since they'd spent their entire adult years paying back all those loans. My question prompted Dad to get a twinkle in his eyes—he was excited. It was like he'd been waiting a lifetime for someone to ask him that simple question. A big smile came across his face that had known much adversity in its 74 years and he said, "Gord, when you and your brothers were growing up, I could never give you much. No car, no fancy clothes, no money for college, not even any spending money. But I did what I had to do. The measure of a man or woman is not the size of the house they live in, nor the type of car they drive, or even where they buy their clothes. The true value of an individual is what they stand for and how they live. Yes, I could have given up but I wouldn't. It was important for me to show you the importance of dignity, self-respect, pride, and integrity. I had to pay everyone back. It was the right thing to do."

I got up from my chair, walked around to where my dad was sitting, hugged him as hard as I've ever hugged anyone in my life and whispered "Thanks Dad." It was simply all I could say, but I knew how much it meant to my best friend. It was a seminal event in my life.

Dad was gone a month later, but his legacy lives on. He taught me that the most important things in life aren't really things at all; that while we can't all be Nobel Prize Laureates or find a cure for cancer, we can all make a difference in this world if we choose to do so. My dad lived by a simple creed which good friends Jim and Suzi Miner were kind enough to frame for me. It hangs in my home office and reads:

It's not what you get,
It's what you give.

It's not what you say,
It's how you live.

It's giving the world the love it needs,
It's living the life of noble deeds.

Strong for the right, the good and the true.
These are the things worthwhile to you and to you and to you.

That quote says all that needs to be said. What we do for others does make a difference. It doesn't have to be big—it just has to be. It can be a smile, a hug, an attaboy, or a pat on the back. My family endured our economic crucible. It wasn't easy, it made us stronger, and we survived because Mom and Dad knew no other way.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Comfort Zone

Dixon Correctional Center, Dixon, IL

As I approach my 65th birthday which I'm told is one of those life milestones, I've had occasion to reflect on the topic of comfort zones. Until last year, I'd spent the overwhelming portion of my life in a vast comfort zone. I'd led a pretty much idyllic life as things always seemed to fall in place for me. The only exception to this was during the Ph.D. pursuit. For some this is an exciting academic adventure. For me, it was awful, painful, and degrading. Without getting into great detail, every time I'd get within 50 miles of Gainesville, Florida, home of the University of Florida, I would find myself breaking out in nervous perspiration. Now this is not the kind of sweat you get from exercise but rather the pungent type that comes from fear, nervousness, and anxiety. Fortunately, I was able to return to my comfort zone in June 1980 with the Ph.D. in hand.

The past year has provided three separate incidences where Diane and I have exited our comfort zones: twice voluntarily and once by necessity. Neither one of us is a big risk taker and we like staying within the "box." While we enjoy travel and new experiences, we also like stability and predictability. It is no secret that Diane and I like people and when possible try and show others how we feel about them. This is just the way we are and of course my recent odyssey has returned the favor to us many times over. One recurring theme in this blog and our lives is the importance of family and friends. Relationships sustain, nurture, and enrich us.

Our cancer experience clearly shook us to our foundation and abruptly moved from a tranquil Florida respite to a world of doctor appointments, hospitals, biopsies, CT-scans, MRIs, PET-scans, PEG, chemo therapy, radiation, and the MASK. And that's just for starters. While I have entered a new comfort zone, I still get little reminders that not everything is where I want it to be. My taste buds remain compromised, salivary activity is an issue, and I had a couple of choking episodes while in Chicago last week--nothing serious but it happens. Trust me, a serious illness has a dramatic impact on those closest to you.

Because of my job as the "alumni guy," Diane and I had occasion to visit nursing homes on a regular basis. People we got to know when I got into alumni programs in 1978 simply aged. They had become our friends and while we were in our 30's, they were in their 70's, 80's, and beyond. Just because their residences may have changed our friendships did not. We simply were more mobile than they and that continues to this day. Let me be clear. I don't think either of us ever woke up in the morning and said, "Oh good, let's go to a nursing home today." Yet, we would wake up and say, "let's go visit George or Joe or Olive or Margaret or Mabel or whomever." My guess is you've all been to a nursing home and there are parts of that experience that are not pleasant but you still go. Our experience has been that even if you find yourself out of your comfort zone when visiting someone in long-term care, it is important to remember the comfort you bring to the person you visit.

You never know where a friendship will take you. Last week, Diane and I visited a college classmate who finds himself in the Dixon Correctional Center. He is a kind and gentle man. He actually lived in Seal Hall at WIU when I did, and we shared some life experiences. His incarceration is a tragic story and to say the least, he is way out of his comfort zone but copes as best he can. It took a little coaxing to get Diane to join me in a trip to a prison, but friendships run deep and no surprise here, Diane is a good sport. As we pulled up to the prison, I thought "oh my God, it is the Shawshank Prison." Our comfort level reached a new low when we entered the prison walls and were patted down and made to put all our belongings into a locker. Sitting there with our friend was not uncomfortable but we couldn't help but feel emotions of profound sadness for his predicament while simultaneously feeling that we were making his day just a little better than it otherwise may have been. We shall return.

Don't be afraid to exit your comfort zone to support or help a friend or family member. You know who you are but there's no doubt in my mind that for some of you seeing me at 153 pounds at 35 Indian Trail took you out of your comfort zone but you did it. And for that, THANKS!!

The Storm of 2011

It has been quite a week for those of us living in the Midwest. Here in Macomb we had 20 inches of snow and 20 wind chills--such fun. I know I am “on the mend” as I shoveled for two hours on Tuesday and three hours on Wednesday in high winds and bitter cold. The driveway was “shut” by a four-foot high drift, three-feet wide, but I got it done. Now, my back was a little sore and my PEG insertion a little bruised but what the heck, it was an adventure and I survived. I continue to make progress in very small increments and am resigned to the reality that I will never get back to where I was when this adventure started but I am alive and in what appears to be good health.

I continue to have a couple of issues beyond the dry mouth and taste buds challenges. Every three weeks or so, out of the blue I get a bloody, and I mean bloody nose that is so dramatic it actually shocks me in its severity. I got one last week in the middle of the night and had to change pajamas and soak the sheets and pillowcases and take the comforter to the dry cleaners. Now, I did wait until morning to do all this, but it is a mess when it happens. My other adjustment is to the sounds I now make. I get this goofy cough when I clear my throat that sounds like a dying bullfrog (I really don’t know how a dying bullfrog sounds but you get the picture) and resonates throughout the house. It simply has to bother Diane as it is simply not natural; however, she is a good sport and doesn’t say anything. If this is where I am, I really have little to complain about and am looking forward to our Florida excursion at the end of the month.

These are the difficult days of winter, but I advise you all to take heart--March is less than four weeks away and soon the grass will get green, the trees will sport leaves, the snow will disappear, we can shed our heavy coats, tulips will bloom, and the Cubs will again play baseball. I do have a little cabin fever myself but keep busy with upcoming Across the Miles preparation and that keeps my mind busy. Not that it matters but I pick the Packers to prevail over the Steelers 21-17. Have a great weekend.