Don't Throw Rocks: and Other Things My Dad Taught Me (But DidnaEUR(tm)t do.)

By Kevin K. (Kenneth) Hart

Dads deserve more credit. This book is giving dads their due. Dads are there through the thick and the thin, the good and the bad, and the happy and sad. This book is a tribute to my father and all the things that he tried to impress upon me as I grew up and through my adulthood. Some lessons took longer than others.

It is my wish that you find some of the stories funny, some heartwarming, but all with a lesson to give. Maybe you can learn that you aren't really that special or that you aren't owed anything. I hope that you will follow the Golden Rule and to be polite and kind. Remember, dads aren't perfect.

I love my dad even though he died many years ago. He is with me always, teaching and reminding me. Your dad probably is with you as well. This book isn't about dad jokes. It's about dad lessons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684980239

Book preview

Preface

First of all, I want all of you readers to know that I am a hypocrite. Everything that I have written in these pages is fraught with hypocrisy. I have broken every one of these things that I will implore you to stop or start doing. Of course, I knew better. Sometimes, it took the figurative slap on the back of the head. Sometimes, it took a literal slap on the back of the head.

Since my head is very hard, sometimes I just didn’t get it. Usually, it was because I didn’t want to get it. Yes, I threw rocks, and I used words with bad intent; and I even thought that I was so special that things and rules didn’t apply to me or I was owed something. I was rude and impolite and never asked the second question. I didn’t manage my money or follow the Golden Rule or owned my screwups. Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes. These are the things that Dad taught me. These are the things that took me a lifetime to finally learn. I truly hope that it doesn’t take you that long.

I have filled the following pages with stories and personal experiences that I hope you find funny, sad, and/or educational. And if some of you are offended, then just stop reading. If you have problems with your own insecurities, then go elsewhere. This is not a politically correct book. It just lays out for you lessons that I have learned.

I bet you wonder where I got the title. Well, obviously it was from my father. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks. I only took me about a half or more of my life to really understand what that meant. Too bad that it was the back half.

Of course, I knew that if my house wasn’t in order, I shouldn’t say anything bad about someone else. But I was a teenage male and couldn’t or wouldn’t and chose not to get it for some years. By the way, the teenage male has to be the stupidest creature that walks the face of the earth. I was one; I know. The teenage male can only think about six inches in front of his face. Thoughts are singular, and there is virtually no concept of consequences. Often, and this was my case, it lasted way beyond my teenage years. Hence, my father had a hard job. And I had a hard job. But I digress.

My father was a very soft-spoken man when it came to advice and teaching. He wasn’t overt in his teaching. I guess that I didn’t get that gene. But what I really remember was when he didn’t say anything. That meant that I better listen to whatever he had to say next because it meant something. Silence before the quiet storm. It was when he didn’t say anything that I listened most. Some would say that throwing a guilt complex on someone is abusive. I think it is effective. The next thing out of Dad’s mouth was almost always profound. Or sometimes, he didn’t say anything, and that was even more profound. That is not to say that he didn’t love to talk! He would talk and talk and talk and talk.

Dad was a full-blown Swede, or Swedish American to be politically correct. I hate that phrase. Both of his sets of grandparents came from Sweden as children. By the way, in this ultrawacko society that we live in, they came legally. He raised us in a little Swedish community in southwest Iowa called Stanton in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. It is called the Little White City. All the houses are painted white. Didn’t see that one coming, did you! (More political incorrectness.)

But that is just a testament to the easily over offended, self-righteous, I have to have it now, world in which we live. I grew up thinking that a minority was a Norwegian! At one point, all the business names were in Swedish on the front of buildings. Second question: How would you know what business you were going into unless you knew the language? More on that later. Life was very simple in Stanton and was and still has a wonderful community culture. Much the same way as my father was very simple and shared that culture.

Almost all of the labor force was very blue-collar, and there was almost no white-collar employment. Certainly, there was no white-collar that we would call white-collar today. There were farmers, and there were those businesses that supported farmers. And farmers supported those businesses. Everyone worked for a living. No free rides. Everyone was there to help out someone in need.

It was a time when there were values, and those values meant something. Values weren’t what you wanted them to be. Values were life lessons and aspects to guide your future life. These were real values, and they were ingrained in all of us. You helped your neighbor; you went to church at least twice a week; you were held accountable; expectations were high; and agriculture rated just below church, family, music programs, and how good the basketball teams would be. Good football really didn’t happen until later. Values weren’t made up or deserved or expected of others and not yourself. It was a lifestyle. I veered away from that, but with this writing, I understand how important those values were and still are. They are my father’s legacy.

Although my father couldn’t speak Swedish, he understood it and knew a few phrases and words. "Taks en meca and var sa gud—that means thank you and you’re welcome/it is good—were heard everywhere. The men of the community would gather under the streetlamps and sing in Swedish Skoja Maj" (Welcome May) on April 30. Many church services were held in Swedish until that late fifties or early sixties. The senior citizens of the community would have conversations in Swedish, but commerce was transacted in English. Life meant something; community meant something. Whatever you did, you were expected to excel. Go to the nth degree.

I recently went back to sing Skoja Maj after a forty-year absence. I was treated like I had never left. I remember telling one of the guys singing that I couldn’t remember all of the song, and he said, Just mumble. No one will know the difference. Made it