Actions spoke louder than words

In 1929, at the age of 15, my father escaped a chaotic home in the Catskill Mountains of New York by hitching a ride with his uncle to New York City.

His uncle was sympathetic to my dad, whose chief complaint was the way he was treated by his stepmother.

On the way into the city, my father’s uncle gave him $200. In 1929, that was a small fortune.

My dad landed in Brooklyn and found work right away in a bookstore. He worked hard for several months, and one day, a regular customer named Al Spertus took notice of how hard he was working.

Spertus offered my dad a job in his factory, which manufactured picture frames. The money was far better than what my dad was making in the bookstore, so he took the job.

On his first day in the factory, Spertus introduced my dad to the foreman and told him to teach my dad the business.

The foreman was a gruff, cigarchomping guy out of central casting who took one look at my dad and said, “You just watch the back of my suspenders.”

My dad worked there for years, learning not only how to run a factory, but how to get people to work together and how to maximize every ounce of labor. My dad got so good at managing factories that when a new company opened up in Los Angeles in 1963 ? making picture frames ? they lured our family from Chicago, where my father had been lured several years earlier.

My father’s work ethic rewarded me with one of the best things that could ever happen to anyone: We moved to California.

Along the way, my father had personal challenges that he did not overcome until I was about 15 years old. Despite some turbulence in our own home, I cannot recall a day when I did not love my father very much.

And even though it has been almost seven years since he passed away, I still think of him often, and I still miss him.

My dad fought cancer for 10 years. Fighting cancer for 10 years was typical of my dad. He worked hard at fighting cancer, just as he worked hard at his job all those years.

When it became clear that the fight was over, we had a series of overdue conversations. It was during one of them that he told me about his uncle and the $200. Before then, I believed that he ran away from home by hitchhiking to the city with no money.

And I did not know until then that the personal demons my dad fought for almost 20 years began in 1951.

In another conversation, he admitted that perhaps spending so much time at the factories was not the best way to have spent his time.

His work ethic is both a blessing and a curse to the four boys he raised, but especially to me. I was closer to my dad than my brothers and cannot shake the overwhelming sense of duty I feel to anyone who is paying me to work for them.

I admit that sometimes my family sacrifices as a result. I’m doing better lately, having voluntarily removed myself from some regular writing gigs that kept me too busy. And it helps me to know that the kids are in the wonderful care of my wife when I am not around.

A few days ago, I read that actor Paul Newman said he wished he had not worked so hard in his life. Hard to believe that a guy with such an exceptional career could have that regret, but he does.

I also read that the new generation of American workers places less value on wages and benefits than they do on flexible scheduling and time off. That’s good and bad.

It’s bad because I can’t help being concerned that the “nose to the grindstone” work ethic of my father’s time is lost and that the nation will be less competitive as a result.

But that philosophy is really good for the future families of these new workers.

Each year, I am more like my father. I enjoy listening to baseball on the radio and having a cigar now and then. He smoked cigars every day ? big ones ? something that was a sign of the times. I cannot seem to find the 20 minutes I need to smoke the smaller ones of which I have become fond.

My father and I are miles apart in one area, though. As hard as I work ? which has included too much travel ? there is nothing more important to me than the time I spend with my family.

There is nothing I’d rather be doing than just being with them, even if it’s lying in the aisles of the bookstores at South Coast Plaza, reading on a Sunday afternoon.

My dad was not an emotional guy. He was just a country boy with a sixth-grade education. In fact, I can think of only one time when he told me he loved me, which was just a few days before he passed away.

Things like that didn’t matter to me. As he always did, my dad did his talking through his actions, and I understood.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.