As I’ve aged, I try to budget my spare time. One way is by watching only the last segment of television programs. It’s like reading the last page of a book before committing to the entire story.
This time, the show was The Rifleman. Mark McCain was in trouble and Lucas saves the day. They embrace. I’ve watched this scenario countless times over the years and it energizes my memory bank like nothing else.
Matt saving Kitty is close, but I didn’t identify with either of them. I was a little boy like Mark, and, while he wasn’t Lucas McCain, my dad was my hero—and saved me many times—most of them after I became an adult.
It took several years and a couple of Bat Turns to realize who I really looked up to. As a youngster, my dad influenced me in many ways. His daily actions, coupled with the things he determined to be important usually resulted in a lesson learned. Trivial events at the time returned years later—sometimes in stunning fashion.
When the ’60s came along, we began disagreeing about pointless things—long hair, patriotism, an Asian conflict, true equal rights for everyone. Those disagreements, along with mammalian clashing of male genes, brought distrust, misunderstanding, and anger into my relationship with my father. It took about an hour in a local hospital waiting room and a newborn with a misshapen head to end that madness.
We didn’t sign any peace treaties or have tearful apologies. I don’t remember even acknowledging the moment. But we stopped arguing about things we couldn’t fix. We danced around our differences and knew, somehow, our relationship was more important than being right.
I have vague memories of an awards show years after ’60s Westerns rode off into the sunset. Several Rifleman clips were shown of the main characters embracing as episodes ended. Then Chuck Connors and Johnny Crawford appeared onstage to a standing ovation.
Connors was an old man. Crawford had matured into adult roles and even exposed himself in a movie, something that would’ve resulted in a trip to the woodshed during their five TV years together. Like Opie Taylor, Beaver Cleaver, and Richie Cunningham, these characters, and their fathers left impressions. I was stunned at how emotional that moment was for me. While watching this more recent episode, that other TV moment rattled around in my memory, getting me all misty eyed once again.
I’ve written about George Cox more than anything else. There are thousands of memories, some funny, others dramatic, and many simple ones that just linger in my distant memory bank, waiting to drop down and improve my mood, or my understanding. Everything I am today, good and bad, is linked to my dad.
Our improved relationship began in November 1969 with the birth of my first child. It lasted until November 2003, when my hero breathed his last. He drifted quietly away and I was left with all those memories but no regrets. Father’s Day celebrations never focused on him because he was present every day. Even after he passed away. I wouldn’t change a single moment.
Hope you’re as lucky as I am.
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