TV Dads and Our Fathers

The 1950s were great years for TV dads. If you liked them earnest but clueless you probably watched Ozzie Nelson on the “Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” For those who preferred a more autocratic approach there was Jim Anderson on “Father Knows Best.” TV consoles back then were bigger, screens were smaller, and channel changing was simpler. Dads watching at home just grunted “Channel Seven,” and their kids jumped right up and changed the channel if they knew what was good for them.

Isn’t it ironic that now, our children are the only ones who understand how to use the remote control?

Sitcoms in the 50’s portrayed family life from an adult’s perspective until two writers named Joe Connelly and Bob Mosher came along. Joe and Bob had a crazy notion that children should not only be seen AND heard, but actually listened to. The father of six kids, Connelly chose two of his own boys as the inspiration for the iconic TV sons we all know today as Wally and Beaver. The Cleaver boys needed someone to “lay down the law,” so Joe and Bob dreamed up Ward, the TV dad all Babyboomer fathers are measured against, and June, who set Women’s Lib back a few years by vacuuming their house in an elegant dress and high heels.

Ward always gave his sons simple rules to keep them out of trouble, but in almost every episode his boys disobeyed him-- usually with catastrophic results. Often the boys were tempted into waywardness by Eddie Haskell, the serpent in the Middle Class Garden of Eden known as Mayfield. But no matter how badly his children screwed up, Ward always loved them, patiently reminding his sons again and again that the rules he laid down were for their own good.

Leave it to Beaver was less a TV show than an ongoing morality play. Themes included obey your parents, tell the truth, and treat others with respect. While nobody ever accused Joe or Bob of plagiarism, they clearly weren’t above using a commandment or two for inspiration. (If thou MUST steal, steal from the best).

TV families have changed a lot since the days of the Beave. The black and white ethics of Mayfield have been replaced by the garish cynicism of Springfield, home of the dysfunctional Simpson family and their oafish father, Homer. Even now, several U.S. cities named Springfield are shamelessly competing to be declared the “real” Springfield, hoping to win a special premiere of the upcoming Simpsons movie and lay claim to a civic legacy of pollution, bad schools and nuclear meltdowns. At the risk of sounding like a Ned Flanders, Ward’s fatherly advice was clearly superior to Homer’s, whose less-offensive quotes include: “Well, it’s 1:00 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids!” and “You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.” D’oh!

Of course the real world is neither black and white, nor predominantly yellow. Real dads are often not as good as the best TV dads, but mostly we’re better than the worst. We blow our stacks too frequently, and many times we lecture when we should listen, but we try to be encouraging and we even say we’re sorry when we’re wrong-- although that rarely happens. While our quality time usually occurs at a more reasonable hour than 1:00 a.m., it never lasts as long as it should, and most of us eat too many donuts. Still, as fathers, we all hope we’re more like Ward Cleaver than Homer Simpson, and only a fool would prefer a son like Bart over The Beave.

In a classic “Leave it to Beaver episode” (Hey, they ALL were classics) Beaver was assigned to write about the most interesting character he’d ever known. He chose his dad, but since his first draft lacked excitement, Wally helped punch it up:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He was born at the mouth of the Amazon, which is a river, and when he was a baby, he was stolen out of his crib by a crocodile, and in the nick of time, he was saved by a friendly headhunter with a blow gun. During the war, he was a secret general, where he had many interesting experiences. Now he has a job in an office, but he really works for the FBI. On Sundays, he goes to the beach and saves a lot of people from drowning.

Of course, by the end of the show Beaver re-writes his assignment, and Ward reads it aloud as the “Leave it to Beaver” string quartet plays and everyone gets all verklempt:

“The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He does not have an interesting job; he just works hard, and takes care of the rest of us…” The paper continues in a similar vein and everyone chokes up accordingly. So in the spirit of Ward and his son the Beaver, here’s my most interesting person:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. John Kerr. He does not have a job anymore on account of he is a retired teacher who taught thousands of kids how to make real stuff like airplanes you can actually fly in and even how to make telescopes. Then he became a vice-principal and suspended a bunch of kids so he could make more money for our family. Only now do I understand that sometimes fathers have to do stuff they’d rather not do so their families can be more comfortable.

Once, when my dad didn’t know I was in his shop he used several words I’d never heard before. When I tried them out myself, he gave me a really good lecture on profanity which came in handy later, when I became a father and my daughter Christa asked me one day “Dad, what the bleep are you doing?”

When I was sick on my eighth birthday my dad stopped on his way home from work and bought me a hockey game with little metal players on rods and a ball-bearing puck. He helped me set it up and played several rounds with me even though he didn’t like hockey. Then he told me I had a fever and should go back to bed.

In the ninth grade when I was taking metal shop from my dad’s colleague Mr. Scanlon and there were too many kids in our class for me to practice welding, so my dad spent an entire day teaching me how to weld. (We had an arc welder in our garage; you think your COMED bill is high?) Mr. Scanlon took one look at my welds and asked if my dad had done them. I said “No sir, that’s my work.” He nodded and gave me an “A.” Only later did I realize Mr. Scanlon was grading three different things: The skill of my father as an instructor, my talent as a welder, and my integrity.

Later in life I was lucky enough to have some professional mentors and other swell guys come along who could be called father figures. My own dad’s a fine teacher, but he knew he couldn’t teach me everything I needed to know.

I’m grateful that my stepsons have grown to love me. While I’ve never taught them how to weld, I still will if they want me to and we can afford the electricity. I see at least a few of my good traits in Alex and Dave and none of my faults and no “real” father could ask for anything more. I hope and pray today that everyone honors not only their own dads, but all good men who’ve devoted themselves to helping children find their way in the journey of life.

Writing this has reminded me how much I hope Christa, Alex and Dave feel the same way about me that I feel about my dad. Everything I’ve done right as a father I owe to John Kerr… and everything I’ve screwed up I blame on Homer Simpson.

The End