Fathers and sons have a special relationship. Some might say it starts from the day you arrive on this planet through an innate sense of love. Others believe the relationship develops during the early influential years through interaction, tenderness and a sense of security. Whichever path you feel correct, I was fortunate to have a great relationship with my father and I believe it started on day #1.
Born in 1922, he was raised in a different time & place. As the only child of Harry & Agnes Carruthers (a sister Margaret died at birth), he was born at home in Stony Point, NY (30 miles north of NYC) and provided his own entertainment as a child. Electronics were slightly different at the turn of the century. TV’s came into existence in the late ‘40’s so board games (checkers & chess), cards, reading, writing and the beloved radio kept children engaged for hours. Gathering around the radio once a week to hear the Lone Ranger and The Shadow were highlights of this simplistic era. If you listen carefully, you can still hear Orson Wells voice crackling through the AM radio waves of the CBS broadcast… “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.”
As part of the “Great Generation” he more than survived the Great Depression (1929-1939) and WWII. As a military veteran, anyone who experienced both of these events first hand came out the other side a different person. Some become ‘Depression Era’ children and saved every nickel they earned for the next rainy day. The coffee can was your local bank and frugality became your best friend.
I think my dad was a better person after the world reverted back to some level of normalcy and grateful for having lived through such historical events. He was an optimist at heart and hopeful for good things to come.
Speaking of which… I jumped into the world head first in 1963. No breaching at Good Samaritan Hospital in Suffern, NY, I was a 7lb bundle of joy ready to take on the world. Mom & dad were big proponents of the outdoor lifestyle so anything nature related was encouraged… skiing, hiking, fishing, cycling, etc.
Every kid wants to mimic his father and I was no exception. If he was raking leaves, I wanted to rake leaves. If he was watching the Yankees on TV, I was sitting right next to him. The one puzzling effect of ‘like father like son’ pertained to his stutter which he had his entire life. I managed to develop a similar stutter as well. I find it hard to believe I would mimic him on this item?
When dad was young, the medical ‘experts’ thought cutting the little cord (lingual frenulum) between the bottom of his mouth and tongue would cure the problem. We know the logical conclusion to this procedure… no need for details.
As I think back about this surgery, it’s hard to fathom how anyone thought this would be successful? Then again, medical technology (or lack thereof) was in the early stages of rapid advancement and not much was known about stuttering at the time. He continued to stammer his entire life and simply adjusted where he could to communicate more effectively. Ironically, I use to substitute words to avoid hard consonants (read: words with a hard ‘C’ and/or ‘K’) to make it easier for myself and later learned, this was a derivative of stuttering, known as ‘circumlocution’. Who knew? Back to dad… his gift of writing was an outlet born from personal struggle. The written word was a blessing that allowed him to talk to the world.
The sport of alpine skiing was something my parents passed along to me at an early age. They met at a skiing event in the early 1960’s and after getting married, the family mantra became… “Ready to walk? Ready to ski.”
We had a small 2nd home at Bromley Mountain and this was our home away from home once a chill was in the air. A short 3 hour drive from NY to VT was in order every weekend for the better part of a decade. As we all got older, we changed lanes and utilized the benefits of being a member of the Ramapo Mountain Ski Club. This afforded use of the ski club lodge at Mad River Glen (VT). If memory serves me right; two nights stay with 3 meals ‘back in the day’ (circa 1972) cost a whopping $25 for the entire weekend. Let’s roll back the prices.
For anyone old enough to recall the history of Mad River Glen… Betsy Pratt, George the Lift Op, the single chair and the Chute are legendary. Toss in the slogan, “Ski It If You Can” and the rest is ski immortality.
Even though skiing pulsed through my veins from December through March every year, dad pulled the plug on my Playboy lifestyle when I was 17/18 years of age.
To my surprise, he one day stated, “Let’s try something different this winter… no ski pass.”
“Huh… you can’t be serious” I responded in my best John McEnroe bratty attitude.
“Let’s see how you do academically with no distractions” he stated in a calm voice.
Although disappointed to think I wouldn’t be zipping off to VT every weekend of my Senior year of high school. Dad had made a brilliant point in his own “Red” kind of way. He was prepping me for college life and adding confidence to my academia world. He never yelled or lost his temper; he just managed to make subtle, timely points throughout my life.
In hindsight, his assessment of my skiing/school life was spot on. My weekly schedule played out as follows: Monday was a recovery day after skiing all weekend. Tuesday was a mental transition day… starting to think about school. Wednesday was solid… A+. Once Thursday and Friday rolled around, I was already thinking about getting back to the moguls.
Executive Summary: I was a brilliant student on Wednesdays.
Ironically, I finished my Senior year with a 3.6 GPA. I managed to take AP English and toss in a few business courses for good measure. The experience primed me for college as I firmly convinced myself capable of better grades. I was always a good student, but getting on the honor roll was often a hit & miss proposition. The daily rigors of life are hard enough without extraneous items vying for your time.
It’s hard to believe my dad is gone 30+ years. I’ve now been living longer without him than with him. I’m saddened by this fact, but can honestly say I’m blessed for every day we shared together.
I’m proud to say, I’m the son of James “Red” Carruthers.
Until next time…
Cheers.
