Another Trad Dad Thanksgiving!

“Times have changed/And we’ve often rewound the clock/Since the Puritans got a shock/When they landed on Plymouth Rock. If today/Any shock they should try to stem/‘Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock/Plymouth Rock would land on them!” -Cole Porter

Times have indeed changed; but some things remain the same. Take for an obvious example, the ancient and venerable Mass of the Holy Catholic Church.

For this trad dad, one thing that never changes is my love of Thanksgiving. I blame my own dad. He was a sucker for this holiday, and all the many traditions that he pasted on me seem to be unshakable (some to my dear wife’s eyerolling delight). There’s the playing of Christmas music beginning as early in the morning as possible while stuffing birds. There’s the brandy Manhattans taken a bit earlier than what is normally socially acceptable. There’s the annual watching of The Karen Carpenter Story – a family tradition since 1990 and yes, we are demented.

Then there are the usual traditions. Turkey, family, etc.

And of course there is Mass itself. How could we as a family not celebrate this or any other day without offering to God the Sacrifice of praise, begging His mercy and humbly adoring Him at the foot of Calvary?

I mentioned Dad. I’d like to tell you a little about this man since this was his day.

My father was an actuary. For those not in the know, an actuary is a mathematician who uses statistics and probabilities to figure contingency tables. The actuary carefully examines copious data sets. Then he uses these data sets to determine some very interesting things, like how long a person can be expected to live with reasonable certitude. You may ask who would need to know this kind of information. Insurance companies and any company setting aside funds for pension plans would absolutely need this knowledge. It’s complicated business and explaining what an actuary is can be just as tricky.

When I was a little boy of five years-old, Sr. Assunta (my first grade teacher) asked each of the children in class what their parents did for work. I went home that evening and asked my father what he did. He replied, “I’m an actuary,” while letting a puff of Prince Albert tobacco smoke out of his pipe. I returned to school the next day and relayed the information to Sister.

“But what is that?” she asked.

So I went home again that evening and asked my father to explain himself. This time the pipe smoke billowed out from behind the Wall Street Journal as he sat in his favorite chair, watching Jeopardy.

“An actuary, son, is a place where they bury dead actors.”

Even at the age of five, I knew that his answer could not be correct because he had given me a location and not a description. Nevertheless, I returned to school the following day and relayed the information to Sister.

Sister laughed.

Having sent me home for a third day to figure this out, I now look back and realize that Sister was just playing a mental chess game as much as old Dad was and I was their intermediary.

“Daddy, Sister says to be real.”

“OK son, an actuary” – and remember the whole thing about probabilities and statistics – “is the man who brings a bomb on a plane because while the probability of there being one bomb on a plane are negligible, the probability of there being two bombs is infinitesimal.”

The pipe smoke still billowed, this time with a slight chuckle.

“Sister, my father said…”

I never saw the woman laugh so hard. Until the next day because, oh yes, she sent me home for the next round.

“Daddy, what is an actuary FOR REAL?!” I said growing tired of this dialogue I really didn’t understand.

“Son,” he said, “Go tell Sister that an actuary is the guy who uses the last urinal in the men’s room because it cuts in half the probability of his shoes getting wet.”

Pipe smoke billowed, hardy chuckle, and now shaking shoulders behind that newspaper.

I don’t know why she found this so amusing. Now I look back and realize it was her Irish, Bayonne, school teacher nun sensibilities. She gave me two gold stars.

Mom was none too pleased when I relayed the whole thing at dinner that Friday evening.

“Daddy!” she said, “Have you no decency? Sending the boy in to tell those things to the nun?!”

At the next parent-teacher night, Sister assured her she thoroughly enjoyed the jokes and all was well.

But just so you know, an actuary is a mathematician who uses statistics and probabilities to figure contingency tables.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I’ll always think of these incredible dad moments on this day and give thanks that I had such a wonderful man to raise me with love and humor and above all, faith.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy a classic Christmas tune on me.