For many, Father’s Day is a “holiday” of the worst possible definition: a phony event created by greeting card companies and shirt and tie manufacturers to generate sales. Maybe that’s how it started, but for me Father’s Day has taken on special poignancy this year.
For the first time in my life, I’ll be celebrating Father’s Day as a dad myself. This also is the first year that I won’t be able to tell my own dad how much he means to me.
My dad, Theodore Salonek, died suddenly last fall in a farming accident. It was a terrible shock and ended his life much too soon. Now I find myself remembering all the things he taught me; things that I want to teach Theodore, my young son.
Don’t start imagining a Hallmark made-for-TV movie where the dad spews great nuggets of wisdom, or perhaps delivers a stunning speech to his awe-struck children. My dad’s wisdom was imparted more through his actions and a few well-chosen words, which now resound vividly in my memory and, I hope, my own life.
In 2001, the Star Tribune published an article about my company, Intertech, being included in the Inc. 500 list for being among one of the 500 fastest growing firms in the nation. In the article, I shared that my dad taught me to “...do what you say, finish what you start, and say please and thank you.”
Dad taught me much, much more.
“Tell the truth and you’ll only have one story to remember” was one of his favorite sayings. After being in business for 20 years, I realize this simple idea has a lot of merit. Whether its clients, employees, or partners, I’ve come to value someone who tells the truth. There’s a lot to be said for being genuine.
It’s easy to tell a kid to tell the truth. It’s much harder to create an environment where truth telling feels safe, even if the truth is something you’d rather not have to admit.
“If you do nothing, you won’t make any mistakes” were the first words that came from my father’s mouth after I told him what happened in the woods back in 1987. I had returned to work on the farm between semesters at St. Thomas. One day, I was pulling a large log out of a small wooded area. No matter how much I revved the engine of the truck, the log refused to move. Frustrated, I revved the engine one more time until there was a loud snap, followed by a spinning sound. Looking down, I realized the parking brake was engaged and I had sheared the axel.
I trudged home, dreading my dad’s reaction to the bad news. As I approached our farm, dad met me. I told him what happened. After reminding me that only those who do nothing are perfect, he said, “Let’s go take a look at the truck.” No lecture or reprimand; just a straightforward focus on solutions.
In hindsight, I now realize that I shouldn’t have been so worried about messing up. I had seen the way dad handled issues with people who made mistakes or that he disagreed with in the past. He was always fair and quick to forgive.
“If someone does something you don’t agree with, tell him directly” was another belief my dad modeled. He wasn’t confrontational, but he did speak his mind if he disagreed or had something corrective to say. He believed such information should only come from him, and not a third party. When I asked him if this was hard to do, he would just shrug his shoulders and say, “I’m not trying to win a popularity contest.”
While popularity wasn’t his goal, dad was beloved by many. At his funeral, the number of people who recalled dad telling them he was proud they turned their life around or did good work on a project surprised me. It made me realize that sometimes a simple phone call can make someone’s day, week, or even become something they remember for life.
Telling others he was proud of them was an extension of dad’s most basic operating principle: “Be charitable.” Growing up in the ‘80s, farming was a tough business. While we had modest means, I remember dad helping out others who were less fortunate. He never made a big deal of it; usually I found out indirectly.
He also would defend the absent person being talked about (or teased) by others. When my mom and I would do what we thought was a hilarious impersonation of one of the neighbors with a particularly thick old world accent, my dad would clear his throat and say, “That’s enough. Be charitable.”
While my dad wasn’t wealthy, he must have known the importance of leaving a legacy. While it still seems like a bad dream, I remember the seemingly never-ending line of people who came to pay their respect to my dad. More than a thousand people called during the visitation period; some waited in line for well over an hour to see the family; and it was standing room only during the funeral.
My dad, Theodore Salonek, was a modest farmer you may never have known. But he left a rich legacy of integrity, authenticity and kindness to his children, grandchildren, neighbors, work associates and friends. I only hope I can be at least half as effective in passing that legacy onto his namesake.