Post 34: A Family

Day 53: Drew, The Dream: A family.

I never really thought much about what my father did for a living. I knew his company, was founded with a business partner in the early ’50s. They manufactured custom storm doors and windows that were sold all over the country. I also knew, generally, that he managed the money end of things, as he took on various titles over the years with basically the same function: treasurer, controller, and VP of finance to name a few.

  His work became pointedly and physically present in our lives during quarter-ends, year-ends, and tax season. I have clear memories of Daddy’s makeshift workspace on our dining room table, covered with handwritten ledgers, financial files, a complicated-looking Victor adding machine, and a green glass ashtray holding a lit Camel.

            It became clear, early on in my time at university, that I was not and would never be interested in working with my father at the business he had grown for decades. At my graduation celebration, after several champagne toasts, my mother took me aside to broker the awkward but inevitable conversation.

“He’s going to offer you a position at the company. Bottom of the ladder, with no favors. You’ve got to a least actgrateful. When you politely decline, you can shake hands and that will be it.” I found out years later that she had coached Daddy on his end of the conversation just prior to commencement exercises. Each of us stuck to the script. Daddy offered, I declined, and we each issued a huge sigh of relief.

            I had applied to several law schools as a backup to getting a job, and I think Daddy would have preferred paying law school tuition to putting me on his payroll. Fortunately, for both of us, I declined my one law school admission and, after a false start in banking, found my way to my first copywriting job. It paid a respectable ten-thousand-two-hundred dollars a year, with full benefits. After two years, I got a break and was hired on at Young & Rubicam, Houston, by the man who became my favorite boss of all time, Jim Raines.

            Thanks to some natural talent, some exceptional coaching by Jim, and a rather robust economy, I landed plum writing jobs that resulted in some high-profile ad campaigns. In those days, TV ad shooting and most post-production work (film editing, sound effects, and voiceovers) were done in either New York or Los Angeles, or a combination of both. Because Jim knew I had aging parents in Virginia, he was generous with my travel budgets and allowed me to choose production houses in New York, often with a weekend detour through Virginia built into my schedule.

Daddy always insisted that I wear at least a coat and tie or, better, a suit any time I travelled, but especially when I flew. “You never know who you’ll be sitting next to.” Daddy spoke from experience. He did his share of business travel, first covering a sales territory by car, and later making regular trips across country by plane. Primarily, he visited Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Birmingham to negotiate the purchase of steel, aluminum, and glass. His words about airplane attire embedded in my psyche, I made it a habit to follow his advice.

With some help from Jim, I was able to time one of my New York trips to coincide with my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration in Virginia. Like many visits back to my hometown, the anniversary visit felt too short on time and painfully long on nostalgia. Cake eaten, toasts made, and parents regaled, I waited with my father on the tarmac for my regional jet bound for Houston.

As we hugged goodbye, he instinctively reached to straighten my tie and stole a glance at my shoes. Tie straight and shoes shined, I kissed him on the cheek and turned toward the waiting jetway. As had happened at many of my recent visits, my eyes welled up at departure. My parents seemed to be aging more quickly every time I saw them. Saying goodbye was increasingly hard.

My mood lifted as I presented my boarding pass. A smile formed. I could hear Daddy saying, “I told you so.” I’d had the good fortune to get bumped to first class, which was one of the perks that Daddy often attributed to dressing well.

            I settled into my window seat. The doors were about to close, and I was hoping that the aisle seat beside me, by some airline miracle, would go unclaimed. It would give me more than ample room to spread out and get some sleep during the four-hour flight.

            It wasn’t to be. Moments before departure, an older gentleman, fit and carrying a briefcase and trench coat, dropped gracefully into the seat beside me and quickly stowed his belongings. We exchanged the usual hello and nod, and I pulled my book out of my carry-on. Doors closed, the crew made announcements and we eased our way to the number one position for takeoff. As was my practice, I said a brief, silent prayer for a safe flight as we lifted off. Satisfied, I returned to my book.

            About half an hour into the flight, I had a nagging feeling that the gentleman sitting next to me was, in the vernacular of the day, checking me out. Despite the fact that I was a reasonably handsome gay man, the pairing seemed unlikely, if for no other reason than the difference in our ages. I was still south of thirty; he was well past sixty. As I stole a glance to look for a wedding ring, our eyes met. In a flash we had caught each other.

            “I’m sorry for staring, but let me explain. I’m Hugh Oberling.” I took a brief moment to get a better look: he was sixty-five, maybe seventy tops, tanned, clean-shaven, with a full head of mostly grey hair, and a good haircut. He wore a well-made, expensive suit and what could only be called “beautiful” shoes. He had a firm handshake and looked me in the eye as I introduced myself: “Andrew Carter. I go by Drew.”

            He held his gaze for what felt a bit too long, and then spoke. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from, Drew?”

Gesturing to my hometown we’d just left behind, I said, “I grew up there. Are you from there?”

“No, but my wife is. I spent a few years working there before we were married. Then we moved to Chicago.” I uttered a mildly interested but skeptical, “I see.” I was still just a little uncomfortable, but he continued.

“It’s really uncanny, Drew.”

“What is, Mr. . . .?”

“Hugh.”

“Yes, ok. Hugh.”

“You see, you look so much like a good friend of mine from long ago. Your last names are the same, but I don’t think my friend had any children. And, yet, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were at least related, if not his son.”

I was feeling more relieved by the minute, as it became clear that this wasn’t a come-on, but rather a six-degrees-of-separation moment.