Donald J. Layne, 1929-2013
I lost my father recently.
He was a hard man to lose. Not
merely because of his size (he struggled with weight for most of his adult life),
but more so because of who he was to the world.
My dad was a man of
the people, for the people, from the people. He knew everyone. I guess that happens when you hang around for
almost 84 years.
In his classic film, It’s
a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra showed us how one life can impact many.
My dad didn’t build houses or kiss babies or cross swords
with an evil slumlord, but he did teach kids.
Lots of them. Nearly three
generations during his forty-odd year career as a classroom teacher, coach, and
principal. And then for twenty more
years post-retirement as a member of the school board and the dozens of
community organizations, councils, and commissions for which he volunteered.
It also explains why his memorial service was moved from the
local funeral home to city hall. Even
then the visitation line wound Disney-esque fashion through the rotunda, out
the door, and around the building. All
that was missing was a theme-based gift shop at the end. And a bowl of soup.
I’m certain my dad was watching, irritated nobody had
thought to charge admission.
One stooped, gray-haired, gentleman towing a wheeled oxygen
bottle claimed he was only twenty three when he got in line. My dad would have liked him; probably asked
him out for a drink after.
My mother, sister, and I met them all. Hundreds upon hundreds. For four hours we stood shaking hands and
listening to their stories. Most
everyone had a story. Many involved
careers my dad helped launch, rescue, or both.
There was one about a kid whose front teeth Dad knocked out during
football practice while demonstrating a defensive technique designed to knock out the
teeth of opposing players. The mishap
resulted in a Watergate-like cover-up wherein the complicit victim kept mum
until his graduation. From college. (That kid went on to become athletic director
of a major state university; he and my father remained great friends until the
end.) Or the time a police liaison
officer’s blank-loaded firearm was discharged in my dad’s office in an
effective yet misguided scared-straight tactic.
Many of the tales recalled my father’s highly evolved sense
of mischief, such as when he convinced the school maintenance man to slump over
the wheel of his tractor near a girl’s archery class, a fake arrow protruding
from both sides of his head. Or certain
questionable Letterman’s Club initiation rites involving bricks and strings and
male body parts.
My dad also taught Driver’s education. I think it was mostly to take advantage of
the free, taxpayer provided transportation.
During those years he was never without a new car. He would select a different one from the
motor pool each night, and drive it to work the next day, sometimes on
family vacations. The neighbors were
impressed.
It seems my dad taught at least half the folks who showed up
that day to drive. Most are no longer
incarcerated. Some still have licenses. All could find their way to every donut and
coffee shop in town blindfolded. One
told us how my dad had him drive to the local Tastee-Freeze where my dad purchased
a root beer float which he placed on the dashboard, telling the student if it
spilled, he failed. Or the time a
nervous young lady’s premature left turn left the driver’s education car
suspended on railroad tracks. Fortunately,
the morning express had already passed.
It was also no surprise the mourners included a number of
bartenders and waitresses whose children no doubt owed their college educations
to my father’s generosity (and unquenchable thirst for vodka). Even a few folks who harbored age-old
resentments came to pay their respects, including several former faculty my dad tried
to run down while crossing the picket line during a teacher’s strike. In spite of their differences, they
considered my dad a great man.
My dad loved being an educator. He loved kids. Because my dad belonged to the world, his own
kids (and wife) were mere bystanders to his greatness.
The only thing my dad loved more than teaching kids was
coaching them. The home I grew up in was
selected because it backed to the high school football fields. My dad said it was so he could walk to work. Of course he never did what with the free car
and all.
Of all the sports Dad coached, football was his passion. On the second Monday of August, he would
leave the house at six AM for the start of double sessions and return well
after 7:30 PM in mid-November. During
those months, he prodded, threatened, teased, and abused his players, imparting
unto them his high ideals of discipline, respect, sacrifice, and what it meant
to be a member of a team.
By the conclusion of each season, he had managed to transform
a gang of awkward, undisciplined, pimply-faced boys into a team of proud, confident,
pimply-faced young men. A lot of those
young men, now gray around the temples, came to pay their respects to the man many
considered the single greatest influence in their lives.
I was truly astounded by the sheer number of people my dad
touched during his life. I was not,
however, surprised by the impact he had.
My dad was expert at getting the best out of people – students and
teachers alike. He had an uncanny
ability of making them realize what they were capable of… that their only limitations
were self-imposed. Fear has a way of
doing that.
Without question, my dad was a dinosaur. He hailed from a time before lawyers ruled the
world – before this hypersensitive age in which people have lost the courage to
voice their opinions. My dad was never
afraid to speak his mind. He always had
a reasoned point which he made without regard for tact or political
correctitude. I’m told there were occasions
when he raised his hand during a meeting without making people cringe. I suspect those occasions were rare.
Make no mistake – my father wasn’t perfect. He drank too much, exercised too little, and
ate like a teenage boy with a tapeworm. A
self-proclaimed bigot, racist, and chauvinist who proudly espoused his oft
inappropriate world view to anyone within earshot, he was prone to leave considerable
wreckage in his wake.
I guess greatness is a relative thing.
Not one for introspection, my dad never had much interest
in evolving as a parent, husband, or grandfather. My sister’s marriage to a black man put us all
through some changes. We took turns
shoving socks into Dad’s pie hole. True
to form, my dad held his ground. It was
what he knew. It worked for him. He was what he was without apology.
My unfortunate mother bore the brunt of my father’s caustic
wit and antiquated ideals. It was all he
could do to keep her in what he considered a woman’s proper place. It didn’t work. My mom is too clever for that. Even so, on each of their wedding
anniversaries past fifty, he would proudly announce they were celebrating 25
years of marital bliss. It always made
me laugh. Once at a school event, I had
an allergic reaction to some pineapple which rendered me temporarily unable to
speak. He immediately offered the fruit tray
to my mother.
In his later years, Dad and I shared office space. It afforded me the opportunity to see him
almost daily. At least once a week, I
would pry him from the important business of playing solitaire on his ancient
computer, and we’d go out to lunch. It was
nice. My dad liked lunch. It helped absorb the alcohol.
Toward the end, as our conversations became tired, I sensed he
had begun to realize he was a man out of his time. He had gotten off the train at a familiar
stop and remained in the station, watching as the world passed him by.
At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s guardian
angel, Clarence, bequeaths to George his copy of Tom Sawyer. Inside the front
cover was inscribed a note which read: "Dear George: Remember no man is a
failure who has friends.”By any measure, my dad was no failure. Just ask his friends. Just ask anyone.
