Advice from The Old Man: What it's meant through the years, what it means today

My mom and dad at home in Forest County, October 1993. He died six months later,
after a bout with esophageal cancer.

Twenty years ago this weekend, I shared some fatherly wisdom with the readers of The Post-Crescent in Appleton, Wis.

Spoiler alert (but you should click on that link to read the piece for context): The advice was "Well, son, you gotta be a man or an asshole."

I might be wrong, but it was probably the first time the offensive word was printed in Appleton's finest newspaper since 1853. Not sure if there's been a second time.

I did not cavalierly approach that linguistic landmark. The counsel of my boss, P-C managing editor Bill Knutson, was sought, appreciated and followed.

Bill — the "voice" of the newspaper at the time — had been writing columns since the mid-1960s.

In those days, columnists were an important element in what today's marketers call "creating a brand" for newspapers in every market.

They put personality on the pages. They showed that journalists were not necessarily ivory-tower types, but were everyday people with issues and problems and bills to pay and decisions to make, in the effort to build camaraderie with the community.

Bill wrote a lot about his personal life, his family, his childhood in Rhinelander, his experiences as a sheriff's deputy and assistant coroner, and gained a tremendous and loyal following for his (usually) weekly column.

So, I sought his advice as a fellow columnist and as the leader of my department, and shared the context and justification for using the word.

We also looked at options, like a*****e or ***hole or "rhymes with bass pole," before settling on the truth of what The Old Man had told me.

"You have to use it," Bill said.

So I used it.

And then I waited to hear from thousands of people — loyal subscribers, we called them back in the day — who would use that same word in describing me. I thought they might add a few "colorful" adjectives — profanity, we called it back in the day — too.

But that never happened. I heard from a couple folks who were offended, and wished I had taken a less graphic approach, but thanks to putting it in the right context, I was never bombarded with criticism. I heard someone on a local radio station refer with a degree of respect to the column and the advice.

The story of The Old Man's gruff advice to me has been shared with friends, colleagues and relatives hundreds of times over the years.

I've told the story in public a couple times, too, usually as a reminder that not every father plays catch in the backyard, or helps with homework, or serves as a chauffeur every time I had a place to be.

He rarely saw me play Little League baseball, and I usually had to get a ride from a friend's parents, or ride my bike, to get there. He saw me play my first junior varsity basketball game as a Laona High School freshman, and never saw another game for the next four years.

That said, he left behind some great stories.

That June 18, 1998 P-C column was the first time the story of his best advice was shared with the masses, and I don't know that it was published online until 2014, in a "Best of Flannery" collection was created when I left journalism.

I met author James Bradley about 10 years ago, when he was in Appleton to work on a potential book project as a follow-up to his "Flags of Our Fathers" best-seller and shared the story and the advice with him. He roared with laughter, and later sent me a note to say he'd shared the story with his friends, and they all thought it was great advice, and a wonderful story.

Truth is, however, that I wasn't enamored with the advice at the time I first heard it. It wasn't what I thought I needed.

I needed to have a conversation. That didn't happen.

I needed someone to help me figure things out. I was on my own.

I needed help in sorting out my life options. I was left with The Old Man's quick assessment of life, in general, and while his words actually helped in the long run, it only left me angry and bitter and even lonelier that night.

The advice is real, and honest, and accurate. And it has helped me quickly navigate some decisions over the past four decades.

It's another way of saying "choose between right and wrong, good and evil."

In another way, it says "I have faith in you to figure this out for yourself. You're smart, and you can do it."

But in another totally different way, it says, "Don't bother me with your problems. Quit being a loser, and grow up."

The more years I accumulate, the more that last interpretation sticks with me.

So, today is yet another Father's Day. And as I stated 20 years ago, I'm still ambivalent about it.

But I have advice for any parent who answers a call from a kid in need of advice at 10 p.m. or any other time:
Listen.
Ask questions.
Probe for more information.
Play devil's advocate.
Find the context.
Ask more questions.

Just be helpful.

I haven't always followed my own advice. I've made huge fathering mistakes, and I'll never forget them. And it probably doesn't help that I'm not a warm, cuddly sort of guy.

But as long as I'm here, there's time to correct behaviors. If you're in this boat with me, you can correct your course, too.

Oh, by the way. ... I should have mentioned the second part of The Old Man's advice: "Wanna talk to your mother?"

You should answer that question with a "yes."

I did. And I do.

Happy Father's Day.