Who had the most positive influence on you as a child?

Mother. She kept us together and modeled life the way it ought to be.

But I may not have given Dad enough credit. Genius smart, charismatic beyond the experience of anyone who knew him, and a storm of trouble. His death was my salvation. Freed of worry about him I was able to focus on my life instead of his.

He had high expectations about everything, especially obedience. On an occasion I sassed him. He took me to the bathroom and closed the door for some “counseling.” “You’re getting too big for your britches, young man.” I couldn’t resist. “I think they fit me just fine.” He gave me a humiliating spanking.

On another occasion, I was playing with friends down the street. He issued a piercing whistle, a talent I have yet to master, which meant “Come right now.” I raced home to find him standing in our front yard. He demanded to know why I did not come immediately. He didn’t believe me. He said he’s whistled twice before I came. I said again that I didn’t hear him, which was true. I recall his exact words, “Don’t you be impudent with me, young man.” I’d never heard impudent before but I knew instantly what it meant. I learned then that truth may not be a defense against injustice.

He possessed an ease and charm that captivated everyone he met. He affected people that way. His use of penicillin is an example. Penicillin was the miracle drug of World War II. Distribution was strictly controlled to benefit the military, but some began showing up on the black market. He managed to get a single vial (a separate tale) and saved it for a critical situation. The moment came when a black infant was brought in for fever and respiratory distress. Dad diagnosed lobar pneumonia. He told Mother the child was dying but penicillin might help. He put a rubber band around the infant’s neck to make the jugular vein pop out and injected the entire vial. The baby was afebrile and breathing normally the next day. The news spread like wildfire––Dr. McConnell works miracles.

Mother looms larger in memory because she was with us more. She, too, had high expectations. It was more or less in the air. She read stories from Aesop’s Fables, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and so on. Each story had a point, usually how the hero escaped by his wits or by adhering to the moral theme of the tale. Her advice was simple: follow the Golden Rule and “Always do right.” Her trust was empowering. 

Mother’s sister Helen was also important. She worked for Daddy as a medical assistant. She lived in McConnell Hospital and served as a substitute parent off and on until Daddy died. Her ethic and Mother’s were the same, but hers was rawer and sterner. She gave us direction and kept the family together.

Blanche was due obedience and respect, too. One day as I stood in the open door of the refrigerator enjoying the cool and guzzling cold milk directly from the bottle.

Blanche objected, “Boy, you knows yo Mamma done tol’ you not to be standin’ in that do’ drinkin’ from dat bottle.” 

Heedless, I guzzled away.

“Boy, you best be minding me in my kitchen.”

“This isn’t your kitchen. It belongs to my Mother and Daddy, not to you.”

“Boy, I ain’t having none of yo sass. You shut that door and get outa my kitchen.“

She took the last swig from a Coke bottle and raised it menacingly. I slammed the fridge shut and darted out the back door. As I sprinted around the corner of the house the Coke bottle came whistling by my ear.

It was a team effort.