The Progressive Insurance TV commercials are hilarious but also profound. You know, the ones with the Sully Sullenberger lookalike as group therapist Dr. Rick, who tries to help homeowners from turning into their parents: “Guess what,” he informs them, “the waiter does not need to know your name.”
The commercial’s talented actors and familiar message got me wondering about Father’s Day: Are we really all just clones of our parents?
Charlie McGrath had a yeoman’s task as my father. He jury-rigged a system of mild discipline and Christian principles to usher six boys and two girls through childhood, higher education and out the door to our separate lives without any detours to juvenile detention or rehab.
While I hope I inherited his good qualities, I swore I’d avoid what I considered his mistakes. So, as funny as those Progressive characters are, I have never needed Dr. Rick’s help, unlike the homeowner in one who is practically underneath the sink with the plumber when Dr. Rick admonishes him: “OK, Tom, we talked about this. You hired him. You’re not his assistant.”
Yes, my father used to do that, too. If he hired someone or summoned me as his handyman to fix something, he stood to “watch” — ostensibly to make sure the work was getting done right — to the growing annoyance of whoever was doing the work.
Determined not to replicate Dad’s behavior, I always make sure to stay out of the way of hired help, except, of course, in cases when I want to watch a technician’s or tradesman’s every move so I know how to fix it myself the next time.
Another undesirable tendency of my father was he couldn’t stand waiting for anyone or anything. I used to think it was from his four-year Army stint in World War II, when soldiers were often ordered to “rush like hell” somewhere only to have to wait around after they arrived. He likely promised himself he’d never go through that again.
Since my mother did not drive, Dad had to chauffeur her to the doctor, the church, the grocery store and other places. If her inner alarm clock didn’t alert her it was time to stop browsing in the meat section and head for the checkout, my old man would be out in the car muttering to himself, leaning on the horn, his blood pressure climbing by the time Mom finally made it out the door.
Determined that I would never show such impatience, I decided to avoid any venue or event where there might be a wait. So we don’t go to concerts or baseball games or on cruises, and never to a restaurant unless we can get there before 4:30 p.m. It all works out quite beautifully.
There was one exception a few years back when I left the doctor’s office after I sat there an outlandish 28 minutes and my name was still not called. But my fever was gone by the next morning, so all’s well that ends well.
One other bad habit of Charlie McGrath was television. The year my parents got cable TV with a remote-control device was the year my mother became a baseball widow. Or I should say, baseball and game show widow.
Dad’s stuffed armchair was planted no less than 7 feet directly in front of the tube, where he’d surf through his favorite channels about eight hours a day, making sure to watch every inning of all 162 White Sox games, occasionally switching to a golf tournament when he needed a nap.
Not to say that every once in a while he didn’t enjoy watching Carol Burnett or an episode of “The Golden Girls” with Mom. But for better or worse, Charlie was the King of Cable in his house on Long Street.
Fortunately, I am not at all like my Dad in the television department, either.
Because our smart TV is 50 inches wide, I can sit and watch it much farther away than Dad. At least 10 feet, or a full 15 when Marianne asks me to back up so she can vacuum.
Moreover, I’m more partial to football than to baseball. Granted, I may watch more than eight hours on a Saturday or a Sunday and, of course on Thanksgiving and New Year’s. But NFL Ticket was not available in Dad’s era, which pretty much compels subscribers like myself to watch every single game to make the monthly satellite bill worthwhile.
Does that make Marianne a football widow? Certainly not, as she has her own slightly smaller TV that she uses to watch her favorite Hallmark programs while relaxing on the surprisingly comfortable spare kitchen chair in the guest bedroom.
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All of which means, Dr. Rick, your commercials may be funny but the joke’s not on me, as anyone reading this can easily see
So, what I want to say this Father’s Day is Charlie McGrath loved his children and grandchildren more than himself and his wife even more. He taught us through his own example that getting ahead in the world was a good goal as long as it never compromised being kind and honest with your fellow man or being true to your own beliefs.
Those are my Dad’s attributes which I wish to emulate, while forgiving him those pesky peccadillos.
David McGrath is an emeritus English professor at the College of DuPage and the author of “South Siders,” a recently completed collections of columns on life in the Midwest.