By Steve Flairty
NKyTribune columnist
We’re near Father’s Day, and I’ll start by sharing that the relationship with my dad was, at times, tenuous. Dad wasn’t perfect, but he was probably nearer to it than I will ever be.
Eugene Edward “Sonny” Flairty sometimes disappointed me. He wasn’t a “super father type” who appeared every place and every time I participated in programs, ballgames, or other events where the focus was on me and my growth. And though he was an incredibly hard worker and good provider, I sometimes wished he would have spent more time just “hanging out” with his oldest son.
Mostly, I wanted his ear — and just a little more closeness.
But perhaps I was a little too needy for my own good, and perhaps a whole bunch of other people could speak similarly about their own not-quite-perfect, yet good father.
Those thoughts out of the way, I owe a lot to Dad, who collapsed at home and died at age 82 on February 25, 2013. He passed on the kitchen floor, directly after finishing one of the thousands of delicious meals prepared by Mom over a 64-year marriage. I was about two hours away when I received the dreaded phone call.
Sometimes there are the actual memories of Dad, but mostly the bent I have on life are with me every day; I sense them with my thought patterns and inclinations, and I embrace the good ones and fight off the negative ones.
Dad gifted me with some wonderful things, and I’ll start with how he fostered a passion for Kentucky, for which I write, read about, and speak about on a regular basis. While growing up in Campbell County before the Flairty family moved from its “suburban” home near Grant’s Lick to a small farm in Claryville, Dad took us on day trips — and sometimes overnighters — all around the state. On those trips and often at the family supper table, he talked about his days working on a state road crew and the people he met all over Kentucky. Amazingly, he recalled their names with ease. For Dad, the state was a treasure, and he wanted his family to appreciate it.
His Bluegrass passion connected with me then, since then — and always will.
I have lots of respect for our country’s military and for those who served. Dad was a U.S. Marine during the Korean War era, and he shared many stories of the time, especially of his boot camp days. Early on, I was proud of him and also appreciated the fact that he had five brothers who served in other branches. I’ve written much about our veterans in articles and my books, no doubt being influenced by the family connection.
And oh, the work ethic Dad imparted. Growing up, I’d often be roused from my sleep around 4:30 a.m. to hear Dad and Mom talking as he prepared to leave for work as a Clover Leaf Ice Cream Dairy truck driver. On days when his truck route ran near our rural home, Dad would load his truck in Ft. Thomas and stop back at home to enjoy the bountiful breakfast Mom prepared. And though, as I said, I wish that he had slowed down his work habits so I could get a bit more attention, he was set on the fact that every day should be productive, and I have internalized such. I owe most of any accomplishments I’ve had more to hard work than talent; a lesson learned well.
Dad loved to farm. And though raising tobacco, along with tending a large garden — and one summer a quarter acre of cucumbers — were not favorite pastimes of mine, today I can see the positive ways those experiences now color me. Ironically, I ran from “working in tobacco” when given a free choice, but I now embrace raising wildflowers. My wife and I even sell some at the local farmers’ market. I love walking around our yard and admiring the status of flowers growing, just as Dad did walking his tobacco field and talking to anyone who would listen about his burley-raising process. Growing things and seeing them thrive brings me satisfaction, just like Dad. Today, I even find weather compelling as a talking subject, and that would probably shock Dad were he alive.
And though discussing “close” things always seemed to be difficult and seldom, Dad and I could always chat about the Reds, Bengals, the stock market, and even some politics. I miss those chats; they were easy.
Being respectful, and perhaps a little fearful, I never pushed back on my father in an angry way — except once, as a grown adult. It was about his smoking, a habit that likely contributed to his need for two different quadruple bypass heart operations starting about 25 years ago. The confrontation happened while visiting my parents in their Butler home soon after Dad was released from the hospital after his first surgery. It was meant to be a friendly visit, but discovering that he had started smoking again, I had words with him out of frustration. I discovered later that he had hurt feelings, yet he never told me so directly. Yep, close talks just didn’t seem to happen much with us.
The last few things I’ll share about Dad have to do with church life, something he didn’t embrace until a few years before he died. Not long after I had those “smoking-hurts-your-health” words with Dad, I was asked to speak at my parents’ church in Butler shortly after he began attending there.
Near the end of my talk, a strong desire welled up inside to say something extra positive about him. He was sitting next to Mom in a pew somewhere near the middle of the auditorium. I can’t recall all the good things I shared, but I finished by saying, “I love you, Dad.” Those were words not spoken around the Flairty household, so I was, I guess, in uncharted territory. I think he appreciated that affirmation but said nothing about it after we chatted after the service, nor at any other time. You might say the distance from the pulpit was as close as we could get.
Our church tradition emphasizes the importance of baptism, and a few years after Dad started attending church, a family member mentioned that my father hadn’t yet been baptized and someone ought to talk to him about it. You probably won’t be surprised by the way I handled it.
I wrote Dad a letter.
As usual, Dad said nothing to me about the letter, but Mom noted that he had received and read it. I left the subject alone, knowing also that a friend in his church had discussed baptism with him. Within a month or so, I received a call from his church’s minister. “Your dad asked me to contact you about this,” he said. “I just baptized him at the baptistry in our church building.”
The two had been together at a family burial grounds in Butler, and Dad asked him to open up the church, less than a mile away, for him to be baptized privately. Stunned, I expressed my surprise, happiness, and appreciation to the minister, but best as I recall, Dad and I didn’t talk about it. I hope, though, he felt the joy I did.
And so, on this Father’s Day over eleven years after my father passed, I will feel a cautious closeness to him… or at least as close as the two of us could ever get. And, oh yes, I meant what I said to him that day while standing in a pulpit — distance and all.