Chapter 4 – George
If you ever wondered where I got my sense of humor, you have to meet my father.
His name was George.
He wasn't famous.
He wasn't wealthy.
He didn't hold political office or invent anything that changed the world.
But he changed mine.
Dad had a way of looking at life that made even the worst days seem survivable. When most people saw a problem, he found something to laugh about. Not because he ignored life's hardships, but because he refused to let them have the last word.
I didn't inherit my resilience from a book.
I inherited it from George.
As a little girl, I thought my dad could fix almost anything. If something broke, he'd figure it out. If something scared me, he'd make me laugh before I had time to cry. He wasn't the kind of father who gave long speeches about courage.
He simply lived it.
When I came home covered in mud after my fight with Samuel, I was certain I was in for the scolding of a lifetime.
Instead, after hanging up the phone with Samuel's embarrassed father, he walked over, patted me on the head, smiled, and quietly said, "That's my girl."
Those three words told me something I'd carry for the rest of my life.
He wasn't proud that I'd gotten into a fight.
He was proud that I'd finally stood up for myself.
Dad believed there was a difference.
Looking back now, I realize he wasn't raising a little girl to depend on someone else.
He was raising a daughter who could stand on her own two feet.
Years later, when life became harder than either of us could have imagined, I found myself facing impossible moments with the same stubborn determination and the same offbeat sense of humor that had carried George through his own life.
People sometimes tell me I'm funny.
I always smile.
Then I think of my dad.
Because every good joke I've ever told, every impossible situation I've somehow managed to laugh through, and every time I've refused to quit...
That's George.
Living on through me.
Before he was my father, George was simply a young man trying to make his way in the world.
Like so many men of his generation, he believed in hard work, keeping his word, and taking care of his family. He wasn't interested in impressing people with fancy titles or expensive things. He measured success by a different standard: Did you show up? Did you do the right thing? Could your family count on you?
Those were the values he lived every day.
He had an incredible sense of humor, but it never came at someone else's expense. He could make a room laugh with a perfectly timed comment, and somehow he always knew when laughter was exactly what everyone needed.
Life wasn't always easy for him. There were disappointments, setbacks, and responsibilities that would have overwhelmed many people. Yet I rarely remember him complaining. Instead, he'd roll up his sleeves, solve the problem in front of him, and somehow find a reason to smile before the day was over.
Looking back now, I realize I inherited far more than my father's sense of humor.
I inherited his resilience.
His stubbornness.
His determination to keep moving forward no matter what life decided to throw in his path.
George didn't teach those lessons by sitting me down for long conversations.
He taught them simply by living his life.
And without ever realizing it, he was teaching his little girl how to live hers.
Before George became my father, he was a little boy growing up on the rocky coast of Maine.
He was born in Portland, but his real childhood began in South Bristol, where my grandparents built a home overlooking one of Maine's beautiful bays.
My grandfather built the house himself.
The lumber came from the family sawmill, a mill that had been standing since the late 1800s. The Goudy Mill produced lumber that found its way as far as Massachusetts. Some of those old buildings are still standing today, a quiet reminder of the craftsmanship of a generation that built things to last.
The house overlooked the water.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore wasn't something you visited.
It was simply home.
Dad often talked about those years.
You could tell they never really left him.
Then, in 1950, when he was twenty years old, his life changed in a way he never saw coming.
His parents suggested a drive to Portland.
He thought it was just another family outing.
Instead, they stopped in front of a United States Marine Corps recruiting office.
My grandmother, a woman who wasn't known for asking permission when she'd already made up her mind, got out of the car, opened the trunk, handed my father a small bag, and calmly informed him that he was joining the Marines.
Then she and my grandfather drove away.
Dad laughed every time he told that story.
At the time, I imagine he wasn't laughing quite so much.
Looking back, though, he always said it was one of the best things his parents ever did for him.
The Marine Corps taught him discipline.
It taught him responsibility.
During the Korean Conflict, he served stateside and was fortunate never to be sent overseas. While in the service, he learned to be a mechanic, a skill that would support him—and eventually his family—for the rest of his life.
When he returned to Maine in 1952, he became the man everyone called when something with an engine refused to cooperate.
Cars.
Boat motors.
Fishing vessels.
If it had gears, pistons, or spark plugs, George could probably fix it.
The fishermen along the coast trusted him because they knew he understood that a broken engine wasn't just an inconvenience.
It was a family's livelihood.
Around that same time, he met a young woman named Billy.
Her given name was Wilma, but everyone called her Billy.
They fell in love and married.
Billy already had a young son, Richard, from a previous marriage.
Dad never treated him as anything less than his own.
To George, family wasn't determined by blood.
It was determined by love.
Soon Tom was born in 1953.
Then Glen in 1954.
Before long, another opportunity led them away from the coast of Maine and south to Bear Mountain, New York.
They settled into an old farmhouse with a wide front porch overlooking a sprawling lawn. Off to one side stood a magnificent oak tree that seemed as permanent as the mountain itself.
Dad worked wherever he could.
One of those jobs was working evenings as a bouncer at Westbrook's Bar.
People often imagine bouncers as giant men looking for trouble.
George was neither.
He stood six-foot-six, but he was powerfully built, with dark, almost black hair and the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to prove how tough he was.
If a drunk became unruly, Dad didn't punch him.
He simply grabbed him by the seat of his pants and escorted him outside.
Most of the time, that was the end of it.
One evening, a young singer walked into Westbrook's carrying nothing but a guitar and a dream.
From the moment he began to sing, the crowd turned on him.
They jeered.
They laughed.
They shouted for him to get off the stage.
Eventually, the owner asked the young man to stop playing and offered to pay him anyway.
As the embarrassed performer walked over to collect his money, Dad happened to be standing nearby.
He apologized.
Not because he'd done anything wrong.
But because he was ashamed of how cruel the audience had been to someone who was simply trying to earn a living.
The young man quietly nodded, accepted his pay, thanked him, and walked out the door.
Years later, Dad discovered that the struggling young musician he'd felt so sorry for that night was Elvis Presley.
He loved telling that story.
Not because he'd met Elvis.
But because he'd always hoped that, for just a moment, one person had shown a discouraged young man a little kindness.
That was George.
He could fix an engine.
He could throw a drunk out of a bar.
He could survive the Marine Corps.
But the thing I admired most about my father wasn't his strength.
It was his heart.
If there's any kindness in me...
Any resilience...
Any ability to laugh when life becomes difficult...
I got it from George.
As the years passed, Dad eventually opened his own garage in Spring Valley, New York.
Business was good.
People brought him their cars because they knew he would fix them the right way. If something didn't need replacing, he'd tell you. If he promised your car would be ready Friday, it was ready Friday.
His word was as dependable as his wrench.
Among his many customers was an elegant woman with a well-loved Hudson automobile.
Her name was Helen Hayes.
To the rest of the world, she was a Broadway and Hollywood legend.
To my father, she was simply "Miss Hayes."
She trusted no one else to work on her car.
Dad always spoke of her with genuine affection.
He'd say she was one of the sweetest women he'd ever met, and I think he took quiet pride in knowing that someone so well known placed such confidence in an ordinary mechanic from Maine.
Eventually, though, life pulled our family north again.
Dad had decided it was time to return to Maine, where family, the coast, and home were waiting.
One of the hardest conversations he had before leaving was telling Miss Hayes that he was closing the garage.
She was heartbroken.
Her first concern wasn't fame or convenience.
It was her Hudson.
"George," she asked, "who's going to work on my car?"
Dad laughed whenever he told that part of the story, but beneath the laughter was genuine affection. He understood that her question wasn't really about an automobile.
It was about trust.
A few days before we left, Miss Hayes came to our house.
She carried a tin of homemade cookies.
She hugged my father and told him how terribly she was going to miss him.
It wasn't a grand Hollywood farewell.
It was one friend saying goodbye to another.
That's who George was.
He never cared whether someone was famous.
He cared whether they were kind.
And somehow, without ever trying, he earned the respect of everyone fortunate enough to know him.
When people ask me where I got my sense of humor, I smile.
When they ask where I learned to keep going after life knocked me down, I smile again.
The answer to both questions is the same.
George.
He never thought he was teaching me anything.
He was just living his life the only way he knew how—with honesty, hard work, compassion, and just enough humor to make even the hardest days bearable.
As a little girl, I thought my father could fix anything.
Broken engines.
Broken boats.
Broken windows.
What I didn't realize until years later was that he was quietly repairing something else.
He was building me.
One story...
One lesson...
One "You'll make it, it's alright."
...at a time.
George taught me to be kind.