Sons of Their Fathers
John W. Hinckley, Sr., the former Chairman and President of the Vanderbilt Energy Corporation was the father of John Warnock Hinckley, Jr. The son, John Jr. is being released from a mental hospital where he has been held since attempting to kill President Reagan in 1981.
Consider his ill-fated father; the utter shame that burdened him day after day and the humiliation he suffered when dealing with his business colleagues. No amount of parenting skills could have altered his son’s destiny.
While living in Scarborough, we were friends with a fire chief and his family. One son about 13, was beginning to assert his own identity and opposed his father’s authority at every opportunity. Their deteriorating relationship was obvious to others.
If his father asked him not to slump at the dinner table, Stuart would sprawl out on the floor. I understand he was caught lighting matches more than once, even lighting newspaper. When he came near my property, I kept him in sight as if he was coal dust ready to ignite
The father sought help for his son. It was thought that Stuart might be a pyromaniac, a disorder that involved an urge to burn things for instant pleasure. A few consultations under his belt, he seemed more level headed. At odd moments though, he would comment about torching a building. His father became even more worried.
As it happened, there was a small, but quite a striking church, down the street, well-designed with its numerous angles and eye-pleasing windows. It reminded me of the lovely Anglican church in Westmeath. The inevitable happened: Stuart set it on fire late one night. The church was saved without too much damage and it wasn’t long before the police knew where to locate the firebug. Stuart was sent to a juvenile home.
Curiously, I ran across Stuart at a local mall some eight years later. He recognized me, came over and said, “Hello Mr. Grylls, how are you?” My knees went weak at the sight of him; this kid I used to know had on clothes as thread-bare as a beggars, his hair was uncombed and knotted and he looked really unwell. He also looked threatening and I noticed passerby’s making a wide turn around us. I asked, “How are things going with you, Stuart”. He answered back with, “I need money.” I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and wished him luck, knowing full well that luck wasn’t in his cards.
Another situation happened when I was involved as a Cub Scout leader for a few years, the only way I could get my son involved. One boy, a police officer’s son, was difficult, disruptive and always sought attention. For one outing, a trip downtown to take part in a candle vigil, Jason was definitely a concern. With his impertinence, he might dart off and get lost. Not this time: I had him attached to the other end of a leash.
One of our meetings his mother showed up. Afterwards, and with much hesitation, she said to me, “Jason told me you are kind to him.” No mention of a leash, thank goodness. She mentioned that her husband worked a lot of shifts and spent time playing sports with his buddies. “Jason was unco-ordinated growing up and hated roughhousing which didn’t help.” I visualised the problem and now felt my hassles regarding Jason were insignificant.
Then at year’s-end in June, we went camping near Orangeville. The tents were on a raised platform, ready for six boys per tent. We hadn’t got through the first day when calamity struck. This kid had most of the boys so agitated that they wanted him tossed off the campsite. Solution: Into the leaders tent he went, guarded there by rotation of the leaders until the weekend outing was over.
A few years later and no longer involved in Scouting, I read about Jason in the Toronto Star. He was invited to Ottawa to receive an award for saving someone’s life, an elderly man who was drowning. I shivered from what I don’t know but uncannily recalled a quote from the novel Everneath: “Heroes are made by the paths they choose, not the traits they are born with.” I hope his father is as proud of him as I am!
My father and I had mutual respect for each other but were different in our ways and interests. We could not communicate our feelings. We both wanted a better relationship but neither of us quite knew how to go about it.
To compound the situation, my father could do almost anything with his hands, whether it was metal or wood lathe work, shingling a roof or even picking berries. I wasn’t a total klutz but when I tried to keep up with him, I couldn’t. It was a strain now and then but we both tried hard to dampen any antagonisms between us. It wasn’t until years later when I was in the workforce and visiting my parents that I overheard him say to a neighbour, “My son likes the company he works for and is doing great as their Purchasing Agent.” I realized in my mind that I had his acceptance and I didn’t need to use a hammer and saw to get it.
In my own son’s case, everything was affable until he reached the age of 15. He started staying out late, skipping school and worse, wouldn’t talk about anything. Time for counselling: We learned in the first meeting that we weren’t obligated by law to provide anything for him. The therapist told him that he could keep his own hours and do what he wanted. It was an impasse, but at least we knew where we all stood.
Almost two years later, right out of the blue, he said to me, “Dad, let’s go to McDonald’s and I will buy you a big Mac.” The impasse was broken. He was normal again.
