I did not hear my father follow me outside.  As I waved the bill over my head, my father’s voice exploded behind me like a bomb: “Don’t brag about your money!” My father lifted me up by one arm and swung me into the house. Inside, the order was repeated: “Never talk about your money!” Talking about money was crude and impolite. The lesson was direct, immediate and I will never forget it.

Most of us have a pretty good idea of who we should be, and how we should behave. Pieces of this idea come to us from all kinds of sources. Parents, family, friends, clients, teachers and the media—there is no shortage of chefs who want to work in the kitchen of you. And because these people are well-meaning, or in a position of apparent authority, we feel compelled to take their advice. Sometimes we even try to take everyone’s advice all at once.

And having something to strive for isn’t the problem. The problem is that most of us have been taught to speak from the person we think we should be, rather than who we really are.

—“Hi, Lou, how’s business?”
— [My biggest client is going bankrupt.] “Business is good!”

We are comfortable functioning this way, and for a casual exchange between acquaintances on the fly, it’s mostly okay. But when it counts, you need to say something real.  Too many times, Sophisticated Bull happens. Our subconscious reads the room and gives us the “right” thing to say. These are the moments in which we think we should be less oddball and more normal; less afraid andmore confident; less unnoticed and more popular.

For days gone by, my dear, for days gone by,
Let’s take a drink for days gone by.

Surely you’ll bring your big cup and surely I’ll be mine,
And we’ll drink a drink to kindess for days gone by.

The two of us have run about the hills and picked fine daisies
But we’ve wondered many weary miles since days gone by.

The two of us have paddled in the sream from morning till night
But broad seas have roared between us since days gone by.

Here’s my hand in yours my trusty friend.  Let’s take a drink of good will,
for days gone by.

The song is a downer.  Shouldn’t we be singing, “Let’s take a drink for the good that is yet to come?”

I spent a few of my earliest years in England, where my family had the good fortune of knowing a wonderful woman we called Nanny Blake.  I remember pressing my face into her apron for a hug.   She had a warm laugh and a cockney accent.  I loved to hear her speak.  “I rode me bycicle today,” she would say. “I must change out of me britches.”

Of course Nanny Blake knew all about Boxing Day.  Centuries ago, the wealthy landowners gave boxes of food and fruit to servants and tradespeople on the day after Christmas.  You might say Boxing Day was a big tip day.  Nanny Blake laughed about earning her box the night of big party being given by my parents.

We lived in an old estate named Littledown in Andover, south of London.  The estate was bordered by a sprawling cow pasture.   Two hours before my mother’s big dinner party, the cows found a hole in the fence and circled the house like wagons.  They were grazing–and making cow pies–like they were trying to break a record.

Nanny Blake summoned Mr. Blake, who fetched the landowner and his men to collect the cows.  Then they all set about shoveling those fresh cow pies away from the house before the guests arrived.  Inside the house, Nanny Blake kept my mother calm and helped her with the final preparations.    When the guests arrived, no one was the wiser.

I thought it was terribly exciting.  From then on, we all howled when Nanny Blake told the story.  She told it the best.  She would say, “Remember me on Boxing Day, dear!”

Pastor Tom made polite, generic comments and managed to misappropriate praise and mispronounce the family name.  It was excruciating. 

My dad was not a generic man.  He was complicated and very proud of that family name.   Finally Tom asked my brother Leigh to say a few words.   ”Thank God,” we all thought.

“Today we are burying a pilot,” Leigh said.  We breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Yes, we all nodded, we do know this.  We are burying a pilot who loved flying more than anything else in his life. 

At the age of 21, he flew B-17 missions over the European Theater.  In his late 20s he flew the wounded out of Korea.  Soon after he was sent overseas to attend the war college in Great Britain.  In his early 40s he flew nighttime reconnaissance in Vietnam.  In between these days of freedom they parked him at a desk at the Pentagon and sent him home to us in the suburb, which was death to him.

Leigh read from two selections, ”I’ll Fly Away” and “The Pilot’s Prayer.” We were grateful that he provided something meaningful–something authentic.  We continued to nod, as if to say, “Yes–this is good.  He would have liked this.”

I brought home a few items from the boxes my brother collected from Dad’s second wife, Dot.  Photos of him at 21, his hair as black as Superman’s.  The ribbons he wore with his dress uniform.  These were the brightest remnants from a life of that resisted being earthbound.   He resisted being a father, husband, brother, uncle, grandfather…he was a pilot.