Opinion: What fathers reveal when you look closely

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“A father’s tears and fears are unseen, his love is unexpressed, but his care and protection remain a pillar of strength throughout our lives.”

— Ama H. Vanniarachchy, writer/journalist

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Pretty much all I knew about our father was this: He awoke before we did each morning, went to a job, came home from that job, ate supper, scanned the evening edition, faithfully watched Walter Cronkite anchor the nightly news, maybe listened to the Twins night game on ’CCO (except on bowling night), had a nightcap, then went to sleep. Repeat.

What I didn’t know was how he worried, sometimes agonized, about how to be a good father. That he hid his anxieties well in plain sight is an understatement.

Except once. As did two other fathers I encountered as a teacher. There was the chicken farmer and the real estate mogul:

One late October afternoon, Dennis King’s father showed up unannounced at my classroom doorway. He was holding Dennis’ copy of “The Kon-Tiki Expedition By Raft Across the South Seas,” the classic tale our class was reading together.

I’d never met Mr. King, but could tell right off who he was, an adult version of his son: tall, leathery and broad-shouldered underneath a faded cowboy hat (which he removed when he entered my classroom). But instead of the black Metallica T-shirt like the one his son wore daily, Mr. King donned a flannel shirt and mismatched paisley tie.

He introduced himself as “the father of your student. Dennis.”

Dennis had great trouble reading. The father asked if his son was “learning to read better yet.” I responded with some euphemistic newbie teacher-talk about Dennis’ “can-do attitude,” how his reading was “coming along” and a disingenuous comment about how D’s could be considered “incentives to work harder” and “nothing to be ashamed of.”

Mr. King wasn’t buying my spiel.

He explained how each night his wife read out loud with Dennis, “but she wasn’t in the picture no more.” Now, he was trying to read “Kon-Tiki” with him. And that’s when Mr. King choked up. “I was never any good at reading,” he said. He asked me if from here on out he could read “Kon-Tiki” with me and “go over some of the words.”

“I don’t want Dennis to know about this,” Mr. King said.

I gave Mr. King his own copy.

Beginning on that Friday and for many Fridays thereafter, without fail, wearing that same flannel shirt and paisley tie, Mr. King came to school to read “Kon-Tiki.” His son never found out. After that, we read other stories I’d assigned, like “The Most Dangerous Game” and “Old Yeller,” the latter guaranteed to make a 12-year-old’s eyes well up, including Dennis’ as they read it together, his father proudly reported to me.

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A few years after that, this time on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, another father showed up unannounced. This one was dressed to the nines: tailored suit, coordinated silk tie, pearl-white handkerchief and ostentatious rings on several fingers.

I’m “Frank K____. Christopher’s my son.”

I knew who he was. Everyone did. His name and photograph often appeared in the newspaper.

“Let’s hear it. How’s my son getting along?”

“Well, his grades aren’t … ”

“I know about his grades. I asked you how he’s getting along.”

“Well, he’s quiet and respectful, but …”

And that’s when he, too, teared up. For a brief moment, his braggadocio disappeared, and he was just another flummoxed, worried father who only cared that his child, a stutterer, was feeling less pain.

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After high school and his father’s sudden death, Dennis took over the family farm. On the other side of the country, meanwhile, Christopher had gone to business school, and in time he owned several bar-restaurants. I was pleased and not surprised. Best of all, the last I heard, both boys were fathers of grown children.

As for my father, let’s just say my sister and I gave him plenty of aggravation: “Damn brainless stuff,” he called many of our antics. But with the real horror shows, ours and his own, he was a magician at hiding his worries and fears from us. Except for that one time:

I’m 12. Returning from Little League practice, I stop near my parents’ bedroom. Dad is holding the phone, on the verge of crying to someone on the other end, pleading “for more time.” So out of character is he that I laugh, thinking he’s impersonating Harvey Katz, his wacky best friend. But when he turns my way I see his bloodshot eyes. For a moment, he looks through me like he doesn’t realize I’m there. Until he does. Then he desperately waves me away.

A business partner had scammed my father, leaving him practically broke.

Some tough years followed. But somehow, Dad righted the ship. I was too young to know how. Many times in later life I wanted to ask him about that incident and thank him. I should have. But I doubt he would have said much.

Fathers can be like that. They’ll do what they have to do to protect their kids, preferring anonymity and not much in return but love and respect — and maybe a tie. Or better yet, a grown-up handshake or hug, or both, on Father’s Day.

Dick Schwartz lives in St. Louis Park.