The Pillar

My Father, Norman Coats

I was fortunate to be raised in a two-parent family. Mom and Dad’s contributions to my development couldn’t have been more different. 

Mom nurtured music, crafts, and arts. Dad was strictly analytical, specializing in question-probing Socratic instruction. Mom was never comfortable with numbers; Dad was never comfortable with hugs. 

I honored my Mother’s contribution on Mother’s Day.  Today, it’s Dad’s turn. 

Dad was a natural instructor. Our relationship was that of master and apprentice. After the evening family meal, Dad “invited” me to his “den” for private discussions. The den was a small home office with an L-shaped desk, a sofa, and built-in bookcases that reached to the ceiling. The wall above the sofa was filled with honorific plaques featuring commendations from Dad’s employer, volunteer organizations, and even the federal government. The weight of those plaques was not lost on me. 

Dad used the den sessions to instruct me about many things, including moral principles, the value of education, and the importance of God in one’s life. He questioned my opinions on these matters and on current events. He expected my responses to be well thought out and ensured this through rigorous questioning. I credit Dad for the ability to carry my weight in dialectic debate.

Dad was an arch-conservative; his public speaking skills were in high demand. I remember him traveling the country delivering exuberant speeches extolling the benefits of Capitalism and the free enterprise system. He practiced those speeches on me in his den; clearly for instruction rather than critique. 

With the exception of matters concerning God, Dad was very open-minded;  a logical presentation of facts always carried the day. When I turned 16, I asked for his permission to race motocross. He refused, saying that the sport was too dangerous.

I had anticipated this response and had prepared a trap. 

In a follow-up question, I asked him if it would be OK for me to try out for the high school football team instead. He readily agreed to this. 

I then produced a detailed statistical analysis comparing motocross injuries with high school football injuries in the State of Missouri, which shattered his safety argument. I’ll never forget the look on his face; one part pride, the other part concern. I already owned a motocross bike and entered my first race the following month.

Dad always had a plan. He loved nature, and having grown up on a subsistence farm during the Great Depression, he was intent on “familiarizing” his children with the ways of his upbringing. When I was 12, he purchased a run-down former strawberry farm located on a beautiful ridge top in the Ozarks.

The purpose of “the farm” was not recreation. The property had long been neglected. The house and outbuildings had fallen into serious disrepair. Dad loved to work, so he put us to work, hauling refuse from the hillside in front of the house, tearing down an old chicken shed, and remodeling the inside of the small log-cabin farmhouse. 

In time, we learned how to plant and till a large vegetable garden, which included killing poisonous copperhead snakes encountered in the process.  The farmhouse was heated by a wood stove, so Dad showed us how to work a two-person cross-cut saw and split firewood. We also learned to identify trees in the forest, summer or winter, and many of the plants in the field. 

Most of our hours at the farm were spent working. But once the chores were done, Dad granted brief respites of play, including going for a swim in the nearby Merrimac River. 

Dad was nostalgic about his rural upbringing. He loved going for moonlit walks down our long gravel driveway through the woods. We often stopped to listen to hoot owls or the yipping of coyotes, occasionally seeing a shooting star. Those walks transported Dad straight back to the 1930s. He loved seeing the distant light in the cabin window upon our return. 

In Dad’s view, there was no better place on earth than the farm to experience the beauty of God’s creation.  A special place was created for this that Dad called “meditation rock.” It was located on a steep hillside overlooking a valley and the distant blue Ozark hills. We lined a serpentine path through the woods to meditation rock with stones. One by one, Dad would take us to meditation rock at dusk, instructing us to be very still and watch nature come to life around us. One evening, a large owl landed just a few feet from where Dad and I sat. 

God was front and center in Dad’s life. His stated goal was to be remembered as a Christian gentleman (he nailed that one). 

Dad was an astute financial investor. He provided personal financial counseling to CEOs and managed the investment portfolio of our community’s largest retirement home, enabling the construction of a new addition to expand services. He also managed his administrative assistant’s investments, providing her with a comfortable retirement despite her meager company pension. He taught me the value of savings, which he called “paying yourself first,” and the importance of living below one’s means.

Dad was not the type of guy you would have a beer and watch the game with. He was a serious no-nonsense straight shooter, unyielding in his principles, and judgmental of those who did not meet his high standards. Yet, he was sociable and friendly, never failing to greet building custodians by name. 

My high school buddies nicknamed Dad “The Pillar,” meaning the pillar of the community. He was respected by all. 

I conveyed the following story in a post a few years back on Father’s Day, but it’s worth repeating:

At the end of Dad’s long life, the Minister of our large suburban Presbyterian church cordoned off the left side of the sanctuary, forcing attendees to Dad’s funeral to sit on the right side. Most people, including myself, assumed it was due to a pending construction project.

At the end of the service, the minister, almost as an afterthought, said, “You might be wondering why you are all seated on the right side of the sanctuary today….well, Norm, as you all know, was a bit to the right himself. “

That might be the best display of humor ever delivered from that pulpit.

Dad had a good sense of humor, and I believe he would’ve joined in with the laughter. 

Happy Father’s Day to The Pillar! 

I miss you, Dad.

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