Today’s guest blogger, Dick Coffee.
I am pleased to introduce Dick Coffee as our featured “Saturdays with Seniors” blogger today. Born in Gary, Indiana, Dick attended a regional campus of Purdue University while working as a foreman in a steel mill. A lay-off in 1975 enabled him to finish his undergraduate work and end up in Law School at Valparaiso University, where he graduated first in his class. “At age 31, I was 10 years older than my fellow students,” he says. “That helped me, I think.”
J.D. in hand, Dick returned to the steel mill and finished his career there as the Vice President of Human Resources. Here’s the essay he wrote when I assigned “The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship” as a writing prompt. Enjoy!
by Dick Coffee
My name is Dick. It’s a pejorative to many. I don’t know. Maybe I even use it that way myself at times. While my oldest son is also named Richard, I imagine he is content to go by Rick. That way he does not have to contend with the snickers and sideway glances of people he introduces himself to.
A television show on Bravo called Inside the Actors Studio used to interview performers and creators of theatre and film in front of a live audience of students from the Actor’s Studio Drama School in New York City. At the end of each interview, the actor was asked to name his favorite swear word. I always thought that to be an odd question. But, I suppose it was designed to humanize some star, make it easier for the students to connect with them?
Anyhow, I was traumatized when Kevin Costner said his favorite was “dick.”
But, Dick is my name. It’s what my mother wanted to call me, on purpose, because she had a dear friend named Dick. And even now, my 99-year-old mother is pretty naive. She would be chagrined to find out that the word dick is anything other than a name that belongs in the lexicon of friends alongside Tom and Harry. Her father, an old sailor, used damn and hell quite naturally, but she did not like her sons to talk that way — she’d wash out our mouths with soap or make us take a teaspoon of cayenne pepper to make that point.
I am also a recovering alcoholic. So, I am used to introducing myself this way. And, it’s how I first introduced myself to a group of similar folks. “Hi, my name is Dick, and I’m an alcoholic.”
A beautiful friendship began at one of those meetings. I’d been meeting for a year or two with a small group that convened in an artist’s studio in a small town in Southwest Michigan. The studio owner generously welcomed us to use the sort-of-garage area of his home for our meetings. His paintings were there on the wall and also hanging from the beams, which had a calming effect on us. On nice days we’d open the overhead garage-type doors to hear the birds singing and let the sun and breezes in. Of course there were distractions, too, if someone down the street began to mow their lawn.
I had been attending this meeting for a year or two and knew most of the regulars. One day a woman walked in and greeted our host, the gallery owner. Like him, she was dressed in painters’ clothes. Two things were clear to me. They shared something kindred: They were both artists. And she was suffering from something, as she was crying.
Nothing at all transpired that day to make me know that a beautiful friendship would arise between us. I imagine she heard my name without making any sort of connection. She had much bigger things to think about that day than me or my name. Likewise, I doubt that I remembered her name after that one meeting. I meet new people at meetings all the time, and one thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I seldom remember a person’s name until I’ve met them at least a half a dozen times. I gather that says something about my selfishness? I’m more focused on me than on them.
Still, it’s obvious that something happened that day. I like now to think of it as a God moment. For years after that I knew her only to say hello. And then she asked me to look at a letter she had received — she knew I was a so-called lawyer and thought I might have some help to offer.
That one small gesture led to our getting to know each other better. She came to trust me and I came to trust and admire her. Our relationship has grown into the closest friendship I have ever had, and you know what? Throughout our beautiful friendship, she has made no pejorative conclusions about Dick.
Nice conversational style. And thanks for reminding me of having my mouth washed out with soap. I must have blocked it out of my memory.
Makes me wonder which one would be worse. The soap, or the teaspoon cayenne pepper?
I enjoy this guest blog — occurs to me that there are many names out there with unfortunate/potentially embarrassing connotations, not just his, not to speak of all the simply dumb/silly names one can be afflicted with. A good friend mentioned a former boss at the UofChicago whose name was JOHN and hated it when people talked
about “going to the john.”
Our dear friend Richard Stephenson was in the army with my husband and everyone called him ‘Steve’. Much later he married and his wife called him Dick. I have to admit that I stuck with Steve and not only because I was accustomed to it. Now I feel a little ashamed.
My favorite swear word is also “dick”, but I never think of it as a man’s name. I don’t think of it as anything at all, just a handy short word that I use a lot, mostly in my head since a lot of my contemporaries don’t swear much, rather as much. I’ll bet Beth didn’t do much editing on your story since the writing is superb. You couldn’t possibly have learned to write so well as a lawyer. It must have been the nuns. Bravo.
“Must have been the nuns.” Love it!
I am much gratified by the comments. It’s funny. My last name is Coffee and in elementary school I had more trouble with that name than with Dick. This essay made me wonder, “when did dick become a pejorative?” And so, of course I googled. I was stunned to discover a 1665 satire by of all people, Richard Head who referred to an unsavory character as a “dick”.
Well, ok. Now I know I’m part of a long tradition. I’ll take it. No nuns in my past though. I grew up in a Methodist tradition, converted to Catholicism after 25 years of marriage to a Catholic and now have drifted away.
I think lots of reading probably influenced my writing. Plus, I have discovered that I am a bit of a story teller. Once, in law school, studying Criminal Law, I raised my hand to answer a question. I started with these words. “When I was a boy.” The professor went over to a chair and sat down. He was saying to himself and the rest of the class. “Here comes another story from Dick. Probably, it’ll be more than 500 words.” That’s when I first became aware of my tendency to tell stories.
Ah, I may have to assign “Telling Stories” as a prompt in class now. You already have the beginning of a compelling 500-word essay right here:
As Regan said earlier, “Bravo, Dick!”
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