Part 3

Wisdom of Our Fathers: Lessons and Letters from Daughters and Sons
by Tim Russert

(Page 3 of 3)

The Graduate

Just because a dad doesn't show his emotions doesn't mean he isn't full of feelings.

My father was the strong, silent type who wasn't effusive or openly affectionate.

I was the first one in our family to graduate from college. Two weeks before graduation, we were having a normal family dinner when out of the clear blue, my father broke into uncontrollable sobbing. He left the table, followed by my mother. A few minutes later she came back with tears in her own eyes. She explained that my father was overcome by the emotion of my imminent graduation from college, and that if it hadn't been for the Depression and the war, this was what he had hoped to do at my age. Never again did I see such emotion from him, and that included my wedding and the adoption of my only son. He passed away more than twenty years ago, but each spring, with the arrival of graduation season, I think back to the day when I learned how proud strong, silent Stan was of his oldest son.

-David S. Wrobel, Syracuse, NY, retired, son of Stanley J. Wrobel, machinist (1918-1983)

The Breakup

Time is not the only thing that heals. So do kind words.

When one of my silly boyfriends and I broke up and I thought I was heartbroken, my whole family tried to cheer me up. When everyone else had gone off to bed, my father turned back to me and said, "You know, I love you so much that I'd marry you if I could." That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me, and I was speechless. I don't think I even said good night.

-Jean A. Astorino, Media, PA, optometrist, daughter of Ross Astorino, equipment operator (1922-2001)

The Shave

Who ever imagined that the memory of learning to shave with Dad could turn a man's life around?

A few years ago, I became the victim of a senseless, unprovoked act of violence that left several scars on my neck. I survived, and the assailant is in prison, but I will never really be the same. When I shave I see one of the scars, and, until recently, to see that scar was to trigger a visual memory of my assailant's rage-filled face.

The obvious solution was to stop shaving, but that didn't work. I began to remember the terrible event with increasing vividness, until I finally sought help.

My therapist's first question to me was, "Do you have a good relationship with your father?"

I said, "Yes. We have a great relationship."

The therapist asked if he had taught me how to shave. Before I could answer, a memory I had forgotten for many, many years popped into my head, and I smiled.

"Doctor," I replied, "this is so cool. I remember standing at my dad's side as a little boy, infatuated with the process of shaving. It got to the point that when he shaved in the mornings I was always there, watching him. My dad bought me a little toy razor, with a little knob on the bottom of the handle that opened the top, just like his. The blade was a piece of cardboard that looked like a razor blade.

"After that, I got to smear shaving cream all over my face and shave with my dad."

My therapist then suggested that I think of this happier memory every time I shaved, to displace the memory of the attack.

And, indeed, the "new" memory has replaced the violent one. Now, when I shave, I feel the love my dad showed me, and I also remember what it felt like to be innocent. My shaving memory marked the start of a long journey best described as posttraumatic growth.

Precious memories are made in an instant and last forever. I am so thankful that my dad had the patience back then to let me "shave." That memory has strengthened an already strong relationship, and what made me happy then is making me a happier man today. Bless you, Dad.

Copyright © 2006 by Tim Russert.

About the Author

Tim Russert is the moderator and managing editor of Meet the Press, and the Washington bureau chief of NBC News. He is married to Maureen Orth, and they have one son, Luke.