Father’s lessons about kindness live on
My father, Philip Earles, had a good-natured attitude toward people, which is something admirable that I’ve tried to incorporate into my own life.
His warm personality could light up a room, and he had a way of making people feel comfortable in his presence, whether it was friends and family or strangers on the street. He would share tales from his days in the military or the antics of being from an extremely large family. My dad didn’t lack a sense of humor, so jokes were always plentiful. And if he wasn’t chatting and joking, he would be happily whistling or humming a tune.
My father left this earth seven years ago at the age of 68, after a long bout with lung cancer. His lessons of kindness continue to play a role in my daily life. — Nancy Arcayna
Dad blazed a trail, led by example
The lessons my father, Fang Hong Wu, taught me were primarily by example, not by sermon. He’s not someone who gives lengthy lectures (the complete opposite of my mom), pithy maxims or quotes to live by.
Throughout my upbringing, he set examples, whether it was working hard, having a positive attitude or being generous and kind.
I admire that my dad, who grew up in humble circumstances, had the foresight and initiative to pursue educational opportunities. As a young man, he proved his academic acumen through rigorous, qualifying exams in Taiwan that led to scholarships and graduate school in the U.S. He doesn’t lecture about, "When I was your age …," but we know he overcame numerous hurdles to become the first in his family to earn a Ph.D. in civil engineering, from the University of Colorado.
With a knack for math, he would proudly and patiently tutor me in calculus in high school, laying out equations, explaining the step-by-step solutions even though it was clearly not my forte. When I decided to pursue a career in journalism, he was supportive, even though it was a first for anyone in the family. He was not afraid to cross oceans or take risks, and I like to think that I followed in his footsteps.
Today, as a grandfather of four, he remains a pioneer in my eyes and a great example of someone who doesn’t just talk the talk, but walks the walk, someone who’s authentic and kind. — Nina Wu
Educator dad was ahead of his time
I grew up in the 1960s and ’70s, at the tail end of an era when some samurai fathers didn’t bother with their daughters. But my father, Joe Oshiro, was a dad before his time. He took joy in being with all his kids, whether it was his son or two daughters. He changed our diapers, gave us baths, took us on regular visits to the park and endured too many Disney drive-in movies — always with a smile on his face.
A skilled public-school teacher, Dad passed up opportunities to climb the career ladder so he could be a present dad, then ended up becoming a school counselor, a blessing for the countless other children who benefited from his level-headed advice.
As to said advice, one of the most important pieces Dad gave his daughters was to look for a man who would be a good father. That trumped a bulked-up bank account, he said, because children were the most precious thing in a family. You could build a good life and raise strong, confident children with a man who understood that.
It wasn’t difficult for my sister and me to figure out which men were marriage material. We had 20/20 vision, thanks to our father, who was a lifelong example of what we were looking for. Today our own daughters enjoy close relationships with their fathers. I think they can thank the legacy of their grandfather for some of that. — Joleen Oshiro
Unconditional love matters most
He’s only been my father-in-law for about a year, but I’ve already experienced numerous life lessons with Omar Diaz. He’s taught me valuable lessons in humility, forgiveness and patience without him even realizing it. But most importantly, he’s shown me how unconditional love keeps families together through the ups and downs in life. He has provided me with a blueprint for the way I hope to treat my own daughter when she enters this world in a few months. — Jason Genegabus
The day I first called him ‘Dad’
My favorite memory is the first — and last — day I ate my dad’s chili.
I was in my early teens, and my mom and stepdad had been married for about a year. For some reason we had a few relatives stuffed into our tiny two-bedroom apartment, and we were just hanging out. Dinner was Dad’s homemade chili. I remember the chili having stewed tomatoes in it and tasting yummy, not that Mom’s chili was yucky, but it didn’t have the extra texture the stewed tomatoes provided, and the flavoring wasn’t McCormick or Schilling (whichever the popular one was during that time).
My mom, auntie and I were spooning the meaty dish into bowls while I yelled, "Who wants chili? Who wants something to drink?" and so on.
I didn’t get a response from everyone, so I started addressing people one by one. I had never called my stepdad "Dad" up to that point in our relationship. I would normally just start talking, and he would respond because if I didn’t say "Mom" at the beginning of my sentence or if I was standing right in front of him, then I must be talking to him. But how do I ask him now without addressing him? So I just asked, "Dad, do you want something to drink?"
There was a slight pause in my mom and auntie’s chattering, and I could feel the "Did you hear that?" smile Mom gave her twin sister.
Months or maybe years later I asked Dad to make the chili again, and he said, "What chili? I never made chili." I tried to describe the chili — whole tomatoes, chunkier meat, sauce not super thick, etc. But he and my mom just looked at me like I was crazy.
That was my lesson to enjoy what I have because I might never get it again. — Michelle Ramos
Red understood the value of hard work
Nothing teaches better than a good example. I learned this the summer after I graduated from college.
At the time, I thought I understood the value of hard work. After all, I had worked through most of my time at the University of Hawaii. But the morning after commencement, my best friend’s father handed me a hard hat and a hammer at the high-rise construction job he oversaw in Nuuanu.
Red Metcalf hired me as a laborer so I could pay for graduate school in Iowa. The pay was $10.75 an hour — more money than I had ever earned. The job also provided the longest days I have ever worked, 10 hours every day.
If Red was there I had to stay — and not because he said so. It was just expected. You worked a job until it was done. And then you came back the next day and did it again.
"It’s why it’s called work," Red would say.
Red was the hardest-working man I had ever met, and he left an impression on me that I still feel. — Mike Gordon
Dad passed down his love of music
When my father, Dr. John Mark, was a student at the University of Hawaii back in the 1950s, he was very interested in music. One of the UH music professors back then was Gertrude Roberts, who played the harpsichord, the predecessor to the modern piano. Back then it would have been an especially exotic instrument for the islands. Although my father did not play keyboards — he played violin — he took an interest in the instrument.
Years later, after going to the mainland to study medicine and picking up some handy craftsman skills along the way, he would build two harpsichords from kits and help me build a small one as part of a college project. And since you don’t want to build something like that and not put it to use, he had my brother and me take lessons on it, finding a respected teacher at the San Francisco Conservatory. He himself became very knowledgeable about the composers, such as Bach and Couperin, who wrote for the harpsichord.
Those lessons, which involved learning not only the music, but also the history and background of the composers, formed the foundation for my understanding and appreciation of music. That’s followed me ever since, right up to my current career covering the Hawai‘i Symphony Orchestra, the Hawaii Opera Theatre and other music organizations and events. So if anyone out there values the work I do in that area, they can thank my dad for his workmanship and love of music. — Steven Mark
Thanks, Dad, for the opportunities
My father, Andrew J. Berger, was pretty much a "hands-off" dad. He didn’t lecture and almost never told me what I should do, but from the example he set and the things he said or didn’t say, he made me aware of the following facts of life:
1. There will always be people who don’t have to stand in line. You can complain about that, or you can be one of them.
2. Not being a gentleman is its own punishment.
3. You can shirk your obligations but they remain your obligations.
4. A gentleman (or lady) doesn’t talk about themselves at length unless they’re being interviewed.
5. Don’t be impressed by a Ph.D. (My father had a Ph.D., and told me about Ph.D.s who were intellectual snobs and not as smart as they thought they were.)
6. Wealth doesn’t guarantee character; it only means the person has money.
7. The only appropriate people to talk with about your sex life are medical professionals and your personal attorney — and only then when circumstances require it.
8. As you get older you will discover that your parents and other "old people" are smarter than they seem to be now. (He attributed that observation to Mark Twain.)
9. If it’s wrong when "they" do it, it’s wrong when "we" do it.
10. "Adults" have been complaining about the "younger generation" having no manners, etc., at least since ancient Greece. Some things never change.
If my father was alive today, I would thank him for all the opportunities he gave me and all the opportunities he made possible for me — and acknowledge that he was right. — John Berger
Dad really was paying attention
I never felt deprived or neglected, but sometimes I did feel that my childhood was overshadowed by the athletic exploits of my big brother. My dad, a jock in his own right, coached my brother’s Little League teams, and I can still hear his deep voice booming across the bleachers at the old Honolulu Stadium and countless gyms during his games. By the time it was my turn in high school — the first chance girls of my generation got to play on a real team — my father was working overseas and absent more than not. Still, we enjoyed a close relationship.
In the final years of his life, impaired by a stroke but sense of humor intact, I took my own two children to visit him several times in Tucson, Ariz., where he had retired. I wanted them to hear his stories of growing up in an Illinois farm town and his World War II experiences. What I didn’t expect was that he would also entertain them with lively tales about their mom. (His favorite was how I had crashed a party he was attending at the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta, Indonesia. He didn’t know I was there until he spotted me chatting up a visiting congressman.)
I was touched beyond words to realize he was paying attention all those years. Of course he was. — Christie Wilson
Memories of Dad and Mr. Moon
For most of my life, my favorite memory of my dad was of him at the wheel on a moonlit summer night with my mother in the front seat beside him, driving across the seemingly infinite expanse of Ohio on our way back to New Haven after a visit to his aunt’s farm, where he had worked during vacations as a boy. My dad, normally a silent, rather gloomy law student, seemed happy and carefree there.
Three years old, I lay on the back seat watching the full moon through the window. "Dad," I asked, "why is the moon following us?"
He broke into song: "Oh, Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon, way up in the sky, oh Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon, tell me the reason why … my love and I …" He stretched out his arm and drew my mother close to him.
Soon afterward they separated, and my mom took my brother and me back to Hawaii.
Then this past September, my son was married on a beach in New York, and my dad, the only surviving grandparent, came. I hadn’t seen him for nearly six years. After dinner we sat on chairs atop the dunes, watching a full moon climb above the sea. For the first time in decades, he spoke about my mother, from whom he’d been divorced for 50 years.
"She was the most creative, brilliant person I’ve ever known," he said. "You owe it all to her." — Mindy Pennybacker
