Get What You Give

The phrase shouldn’t be a threat but a gentle reminder

By Ron Ciancutti

“You listen to me. You say you don't want to tell me how to live my life. So, what do you think you've been doing? You tell me what rights I've got or haven't got, and what I owe to you for what you've done for me. Let me tell you something. I owe you nothing! If you carried that postal bag a million miles, you did what you're supposed to do! Because you brought me into this world. And from that day you owed me everything you could ever do for me like I will owe my son if I ever have one.”
--Dr. John Prentice to his father in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?

Believe it or not, this father/son exchange was considered simple logic from a play/movie of the late 1960s; the dialogue would seem almost comedic, outdated, and ridiculous today—the thought that a father “owes” his son, and that a son could speak so frankly and openly with his father about his obligations. It’s probably unheard of anymore. And isn’t that indicative of so very much? But frankly, I like to think the world ran a little better when fathers felt an overwhelming obligation to their children and children felt a similar obligation back!

My dad, uncles, and grandfathers all seemed to have one common thread running through their treatment of me as I grew: I was to be treated as a young man—not a child. Everything they suggested, every behavior they modeled, was intended to be an example of the man I was to become. I drank thirstily from that cup. I couldn’t wait to be “like them.”

Photo: © Can Stock Photo / 4774344sean

Earning Your Keep
I recall complaining about my chores once, telling my mother that many of my other friends didn’t have to cut grass or take out the garbage. I wondered why I had to have so much responsibility before I was even 10 years old. She didn’t react angrily or emotionally; she just stared at me for a moment and then suggested we talk about it some more when my dad got home. Later that day, when Dad arrived home after work, I presented him with the same case, the same logic. The three of us were sitting at the kitchen table, and he leaned back with a tight smile. He finally shrugged. “I guess I thought you understood more than you evidently do.” Now he had my attention. The last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint my parents. He continued, “See, you live in this house with your mother and sisters and me, and everyone does their part to keep the place running so we have a good life and share the responsibilities to keep the house up.” I nodded in agreement.

“So, Mom makes wonderful meals and makes our house so cozy and comfortable. I go to work every day to make sure we can afford nice things, good food, a nice car, new clothes for school, and a nice vacation in the summer. Your sisters do dishes and vacuum the rugs, and you cut some grass and make sure the garbage can does not overflow. Is that really so much to ask?” I was embarrassed immediately and thought about asking if there was more that I could do. From that day forward, I never questioned my workload; in fact, I became more dedicated to making sure the chores were done in a timely manner. I had a role to fill. I was to do “my share.”

My dad didn’t shame me into it. He just talked like a man and made me realize that, as I grew, I was expected to be grateful for the blessings I had been given. You see, “earning” my blessings evoked a sense of gratitude. To this day, I thank my wife at the conclusion of every amazing meal she puts on our table. When we pull in the driveway after visiting the kids in college, she thanks me for driving us back and forth so carefully until we are safely home. It’s not just respect, but honest gratitude.

From that kind of courtesy, a multitude of good is derived. When I talk to my grandchildren about keeping their grades up, or raking leaves, or cleaning their room, I point out all their parents do for them and simply suggest they “save Mom and Dad a step or two” by making it a little easier for them. Sweeping up after a younger sibling or getting to bed the first time one is told is a small token of respect that makes life so much simpler for parents, who already sacrifice so much. And making their lives easier is a sign of respect that develops into a great habit.

Photo: © Can Stock Photo / gstockstudio

Transitioning To Gratitude
For me, as time passed, those child-learned habits became permanent, and that served me well when I became a college roommate (who didn’t leave his side of the dorm room littered with clothes, empty cans, and plates of old food). Then, when I had my own apartment after college, the place was always clean and “company-ready” because I had developed and maintained solid habits for years. Those habits carried into my work world where my office was always dusted, in order, well-lit, and welcoming. And, wow, once I was married, the fact I wasn’t a slob and also equally willing to empty the dishwasher and throw in a load of clothes frequently meant I respected my wife and “did” for her no more or less than she was expected to do for me.

My dad was from that era of men who were known as “good providers.” Many of them worked in the factories of America and ground out midnight shifts and overtime hours to be sure their families had plenty—not just enough—but plenty. Like in the quotation at the top of this essay, the dads of that era believed they owed it to their families to do everything they could to make their path easier.

A Precious Cycle
As I look around today, I think maybe my generation was resentful of all that responsibility, so we didn’t give our children as much responsibility, and they are now young adults who are not that interested in establishing equity with their respective companies or signing a 30-year mortgage commitment. Maybe we made it too easy. I guess time will tell. Growing up surrounded by Italian aunts and grandparents, I heard the phrase, “Someday you’ll understand” more than once or twice.

But I’ll tell you what I do see today. I see young men and women who are focused on the quality-of-life that extends far beyond an investment plan, promotions at work, or even paying off a house. They are providers, too, but providers of fulfillment. They travel and like to look around. They accept the other’s differences without question. They stick up for each other and fight back when they have been wrongfully treated. They appreciate the elderly and clearly enjoy their company. Last year, when my 88-year-old father-in-law lay in hospice, my five children surrounded his bed for days, waiting for his final breath. When he finally began to fade, my wife cradled his head and chest while my kids stood around, fully in his line of vision. As he was heaving his last sighs, he smiled at each of them, surrounded by love until his last moment on earth. It wasn’t easy for them to watch, but I have never been so proud of them. The respect they showed him was earned in gratitude for all the years of love he provided; he never missed a Saturday soccer or baseball game or the plays and musicals the girls performed in at church and school.

See how symmetrical this is?

So maybe the thought of being obligated to your children from cradle to grave is a bit antiquated when the 1960s approach is reviewed, but the human obligation to take care of one another is still strong, even stronger for those who share bloodlines. And I’m going to bank on man’s innate desire to support, stand behind, and even pull up each other moving forward.

You see, what we “owe” is, at minimum, the equal quantity of what we give out. And the fact is we have plenty of inventory, so we should be generous. In my lifetime, experience says it comes back ten-fold.

Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.