Yogi is the former New York Yankee, Hall of Fame catcher who was very famous for his contradictory statements, twisted logic, and backwards wisdom. Yogi examples: “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.” Or, referring to a popular restaurant, “That place is so popular, nobody goes there anymore.” Once, when someone asked Yogi the time, he responded, “You mean now?”
My dad uttered some of his own curious, entertaining gems. Like Yogi, he was not attempting to be clever or coy; each was said with sincerity and a straight face. Below are some examples.
(1) In our family, there was a long-standing story that my dad did not want me to be named after him. He even said he would call me “Sh*t” if mom named me John Boyd Gordon, Jr. She had control of naming me, because I was born immediately following World War II when dad was part of the U.S. Army’s occupying forces in Japan. (I was a “home leave” conception.) Not surprising, mom did what she wanted and named me after him.
Fortunately, he never called me “Sh*t.” But I didn’t ask about his resistance to my name until I was forty-five years old. It was during his first meeting with my Geers family in-laws-to-be. When I asked why he objected to my being named after him, he responded with an archaic phrase meaning “everyone:” “Every Tom, Dick and Harry’s named John.” All of us looked at each other and roared with laughter. It took a few seconds for him to realize the irony of his comment, then he laughed too, somewhat sheepishly. Now, thirty-three years later, that story is still told within our family.
(2) Praising German tennis great Steffi Graf upon her retirement, he observed, “She may lose, but you have to beat her.”
(3) We moved temporarily to a rental house on Benvenue Avenue during our Los Altos, CA home remodel. When I told him the street name, he responded, “Oh, like that famous African-American singer and dancer.” (He was referring to Ben Vereen.)
(4) He was telling me about a radio commentator’s caustic views of former basketball star Bill Walton’s grating style and voice as a television announcer. Dad quoted the commentator as saying, “Listening to Bill Walton is like having a cholesterol operation.” I had read the correctly quoted comment in the newspaper. The commentator actually said, “Listening to Bill Walton is like having a colonoscopy.”
(5) Dad found a discarded, early hand-held Sony television in a drawer. He tested it and told me, “It works, but I can’t get a picture on it.” (That would be called a radio then, wouldn’t it, dad?)
(6) Scanning our front yard, he once inquired, “Do your automatic sprinklers go on by themselves?”
(7) One night, my dad tripped over the front step at son Brett’s house and went down hard on his arm and side. On the way home that night, he provided another Yogi-esque gem regarding the step he tripped over and his eyesight: “If I know it is there, I can see it.” (Huh?)
(8) I called him the next morning to check his condition, and he said, “I don’t hurt or anything, just a little sore.” (Then you do, hurt a little, right?)
(9) Dad was suffering from some lower gastro’ cramps. A day later, he had diarrhea and was feeling better…getting the bad stuff out of his gut. Turning down an invitation to a movie, preferring to stay close to home, understandably, and let the purge run its course, he said, “I think I will stay here. I don’t want to look a dead horse in the mouth.”
(10) But this last story describes the ultimate in irony and warped perspective. During his final years, he lived at a wonderful, nearby senior community called “The Forum”. Dad called me one evening in mid-February of 2006 (86-years-old at the time). He was very sick and hungry. Because of a bout with the flu, later diagnosed as pneumonia, he hadn’t eaten in a couple days. He could only crawl to the bathroom, he was so weak. Not wanting to bother others, he wouldn’t push the emergency call button in his room to get help.
At his request, I brought him a Carl’s Jr. cheeseburger, some French Fries and a soft drink. When I arrived, he looked awful and was very weak…sprawled across his bed, only half dressed. I sat him up in bed and covered him—he couldn’t do it on his own—and I helped him devour his tepid, low-budget meal. Soon, he seemed considerably more vital and energetic. After about an hour and one-half, he assured me he felt fine, so I left him for the evening.
The next morning I received a telephone call from The Forum’s medical staff saying he had experienced weakness and disorientation in the early morning,and he had sought help from his friend and neighbor, John Colford. Seeing dad’s poor condition, John wisely contacted the facility’s wellness staff. Based on his signs and symptoms, including an elevated pulse and throbbing blood pressure, an ambulance was summoned to take dad for hospital emergency care.
I found him at the hospital around 9:00 am. He was still groggy and confused. He had no idea how he got to the hospital; he kept asking if I had brought him there. And he looked horrible. Tubes were coming out of multiple orifices and others were attached by needles to his extremities. He had an oxygen feed, and his voice could only make croaking sounds. Three overhead monitors communicated his vital signs in digital, graphic, and audible forms. Even though the heart monitor maintained a steady “beep, beep, beep,” I was extremely concerned. I had never seen him in such poor condition. He had not been in a hospital since his appendectomy as a teenager.
I contemplated calling in a minister, because frankly, he looked and acted like a candidate for a toe tag. I sat nearby in a sullen mood. After about forty-five minutes, he looked at me and, clearly intending to thank and praise me for bringing him food on the previous night, he said in an appreciative and sincere tone, “Well Jack, that food you brought me last night sure did the trick.”
I chuckled and sat upright. “Did the trick?” I repeated sarcastically. “You ended up in the hospital! I wouldn’t call that a success.”
He mumbled something about the food’s welcome taste, and I knew my dad’s spirit was still functioning inside that frail husk of a body. That brought me considerable relief. Thankfully, he slowly regained his strength and moved back home in a few days, first to The Forum’s “Assisted Living Facility,” then to his own place for independent living. His many friends at The Forum had missed him, and he was greeted warmly.
In spite of his best intentions, my dad was not always articulate. His back-country Virginia roots were often revealed through his grammar, syntax and lack of social polish. I knew, however, that etiquette and “proper social graces” were relatively meaningless, and that kindness is the most sophisticated behavior a person can demonstrate. In that context, my father was one of the most sophisticated people I know.
My dad was a fine example of “the greatest generation,” as described by broadcast legend Tom Brokaw in his best-selling book bearing the same name. Dad served his family, his God and his country with honor and dignity. And he passed to each of his offspring, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, a sense of humor and humanity that serve us well along life’s often-challenging road. For that, we cannot thank him enough.