Boy, Dad, times have a’changed

My father was a man of few words, so when he spoke, even about ordinary things, his know-it-all daughter listened.

It was 1970. Sunlight splashed across the kitchen counters – as did several grocery bags. In dad’s hand was a quart of Best Foods mayo. “Eighty-three cents,” he said. “I can’t believe it.” A month before, he shelled out 67 cents for the same jar.

“The times, they are a’changin, Dad,” I wisecracked, not realizing that phrase would precisely sum up the next 40 years.

I often wonder what my father would say if he knew a jar of mayo costs $3 today and how he’d view the changing world of Internet, cell phones, iPods, iPads and terrorists.

I shudder to think of the wide-eyed look across his lean face if he knew of the fanaticism that exists or the pivotal moment when he’d comprehend respect is an unraveling stitch in America’s fabric.

No doubt his heart would ache after learning of 9/11 and his head would toss a disbelieving shake at the anger and militias, jihad mentality, prejudice and separatism that have prospered in its wake.

An Army veteran, he’d feel the ultimate sting of betrayal at the Westboro Baptist Church zealots who protest at soldiers’ funerals and degrade their sacrifice with shouts of “God hates American soldiers.”

He would look at me and say, “I can’t believe it, kiddo.” But my throat would be too thick with tears to respond.

He’d be disappointed that we the people have taken freedom to the level of immaturity; liberty to the level of fear; justice to the level of hatred.

I’d struggle to explain that freedom of speech has somehow blurred into angry rants against everything and respect is vanishing into uncensored tirades of, “I’m right. You’re wrong. Go to hell.”

His watery blue eyes, exhausted from years of working as a machinist, would look troubled.

“How’d this happen?” he’d ask.

And I’d answer, “Well, there’s these spin doctors of the airwaves, for one.”

“Spin doctors?”

“They’re like con artists,” I’d say, “and their myopic visions, misquotes and misinformation flood the airwaves with worthless rhetoric.”

“About what?”

“Politics, religion, sports, anything, Dad. And listeners, hundreds of thousands in number, don’t question if what they’re hearing is true or correct and, worst of all, don’t bother to find out.”

And I’d tell him how these spin doctors are paid a pretty penny to incite anger, it’s their job and if offered a prettier penny to argue the opposite side, they’d jump ship in an instant.

And he’d ask, “How come?”

And I’d tell him, “Because money talks, Dad, not correctness or objectivity or decency.”

“Lots of yakkin’ and no backin’,” he’d quip and I’d chuckle.

And then I’d tell him about the bailouts. And he’d ask, “How come?” And I’d say, “That’s a good question.”

His eyes would stare at the ground and he’d punch a hole into the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Where’s the Boy Scouts when you need ’em?” he’d joke. And I’d have to tell him about the pedophile Scout leaders.

“Where’s a priest when you need ’em?” he’d retort. And I’d have to tell him about the pedophile priests.

His mouth would twist awkwardly. “I’m afraid to ask …” But he’d ask anyway. “Where’s God in all this?”

And I’d tell him about the burgeoning TV evangelists and the thousands of beliefs that contradict each other.

His brow would push forward. “You’re talking about religion, kiddo, not God.” And I’d have to agree.

I’d try to explain that we’re improving and sometimes the path gets muddied but most Americans are hard working and honest and understand the sway of the political pendulum that has, surprisingly, kept the checks and balances checked and balanced.

“Look, Dad,” I’d plead, “we really are trying.”

And he’d say, “Maybe we should try harder.”

And I’d have to admit that America’s shining light of freedom and respect are dimming and that we’ve kind of lost our focus and, “Boy, Dad, I really wish mayo was still only 83 cents.”

He’d look at me through his father’s eyes. “Kiddo,” he’d say, “the times, they are a’changin.”