Balls were bouncing in the gym.
Children were running, shooting baskets.
Among all the chaos
I saw you grinning at me –
wanting me to watch you.
You waved at me – I waved at you.
You showed me how you could dribble.
The moment froze in my memory. READ MORE
Today’s story appeared originally in The Wall Street Journal. Barbara Corcoran spoke with reporter Marc Myers. Barbara and Marc kindly allowed Savvy Dad to share this story.
I know that I seem tough on TV’s “Shark Tank,” often tearing into business pitches, but deep down I’m really a softie. Growing up in Edgewater, N.J. in the mid-1950s with five sisters and four brothers, I loved listening to my father sing in the living room every Wednesday night with his barbershop quartet. The song he sang that touched me most was “Heart of My Heart.”
Barbara and her Dad
My father loved music more than anything else. A printing press foreman in Newark, N.J., he had taught himself to play guitar, piano and accordion. He also sang tenor with a group of guys he worked with and always sang at family gatherings. When I was about 5 years old, my father began singing “Heart of My Heart” each night to put us all to sleep. But since he couldn’t be in both the boys and girls’ rooms at once, he’d sing live in one and play a tape of him singing the song in the other. The next night he’d switch. READ MORE
When I was a freshman in college…we were asked to write a paper on the greatest man we’d ever met. It was an easy and immediate decision for me… I wrote about my Father.
Since that first year of college…I’ve met five Presidents, two Vice-Presidents, numerous Generals, Admirals, sports stars, singers, international ministry leaders and assorted other celebrities and persons in authority.
If I were asked to write the same paper during this the 25th anniversary of my 39th birthday year…I would still write about my father…for whom I will always call Daddy, so why change.
He was and still is the greatest man I’ve ever met.
My purpose in this blog is not just to write something sentimental about my father but there are several things that “Mr. Harold,” as Dad was known in our town, taught me…that will benefit and bless all who read these words. READ MORE
He was born in 1902 in Easley, South Carolina. No electricity, no radio, no television, no cars, no running water, and no stores — they grew food on the family farm. Outdoor kitchen and outdoor bathrooms. You get the picture.
But my dad, Hugh Smith, was a born adventurer.
Peter and his father, Hugh Smith
A small farming town could only hold him so long. In 1923, at the age of 21, he drove his Ford Model T across the country, camping along the roadside. He just wanted to “see what’s out there.” Since childhood, he was consumed with an insatiable curiosity for the world and beyond.
His first real “adventure” was Rochester Med School. But he wasn’t satisfied with just the M.D. — he later attended Johns Hopkins for a second degree in Public Health.
Working as a virologist for the Rockefeller Foundation, he would take on his next (and probably his greatest) adventure… Yellow fever.
“Stay away from that Johnny, he’s trouble,” Mom warned.
He’s a troublemaker, a bad seed. As a nurse, Mom had observed the sometimes tragic result of hanging out with “dangerous” kids.
Chris Haydel Family, Christmas 1971
It was a hot summer day in New Orleans, but to me, it had never felt cooler. I had saved up for a month, and today was the big day. The shiny long barrel. The plastic “ivory” grip. Multi-cap loading capacity. A magnificent weapon. A young boy’s dream. I had seen it in the toy aisle of a store not too far away.
Mom had gone out to run errands, but she promised to take me as soon as she got back. I was playing outside to kill time.
Johnny was outside too, but he was killing bugs with his magnifying glass. “Hey, watcha doin’?” He yelled from across the street.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, bowing my head, heeding Mom’s warning. READ MORE
I was 25 years old. Bankrupt. Medicaid. Applying for food stamps. Car repossessed. My wife and I were at the lowest of low. Neither of us made it through college. Five kids. I felt like a total failure — as a husband, as a father, and as a provider.
Darin and his mentor, Jeff Olson
Opportunities were scarce in our small Virginia town. I needed help. Guidance. Someone to show me the way.
My Dad? A faithful Christian. A family man. Growing up, he helped others in need, even when we were scraping to get by. He was a wonderful man, and I count myself very blessed. But it was clear I needed a different kind of help, from a different kind of mentor. Life smarts. Business savvy. Principles for success. I went on the hunt…
I found Jeff Olson. He wrote a book called The Slight Edge, among others. What I learned from him has defined my life. READ MORE
Today’s story is contributed by Robert Dilenschneider.
A late night phone call. To my surprise, Dad took it in the solitude of the basement. In hushed, urgent tones he spoke,
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to do it. I hope you’ll be able to understand.”
Huddled beneath the basement steps, in my secret spot, I could hear the tension in his voice.
Thus begins one of my earliest and most powerful lessons from Dad, a portrait of virtue, and an example of standing one’s ground.
A young Robert and his father, Dil
My father, Sigmund John Dilenschneider, or “Dil” as he was known, was a newspaperman. The son of a middle class weaver, he had worked his way through school, culminating in his graduation from the esteemed Wharton School of Business in Philadelphia.
It was at Wharton, in the midst of the Great Depression in the 1930’s, that he met and married my mom. For a time they were forced to live apart with parents and friends — too poor to afford an apartment together.