The Need for Engaged Dads

As I explain in my humor book, “Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood,” Thursday night was grocery shopping night and the best night of the week.

Right after dinner, my father and I would board our 1970 Plymouth Fury III station wagon and head to the Del Farm grocery store, which was located in a small plaza one mile from our suburban home.

Like all grocery stores then, Del Farm was a utilitarian place. There were no lobster tanks or gourmet food displays. The daily specials were written in black magic marker on torn sheets of white paper and taped to the front windows.

Inside, the white tile floor was worn through to the concrete. Everything was painted white and illuminated by the bare, humming fluorescent bulbs that hung above.

I got to push the cart and help my dad find the dozens of items on my mother’s shopping list.

They watched their spending carefully then, as my father was the sole breadwinner — but he’d usually give in a little.

On a good night, he’d buy a box of Del Farm’s fresh-baked oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies and a bag of Snyder’s of Berlin potato chips and onion dip (my mother’s favorite).

One Thursday a month, we’d stop at the beer distributor afterward for a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and 12 64-ounce bottles of Regent soda pop.

The store’s owner gave me a pretzel rod, which I enjoyed as the two master shooters of the bull talked about the Pittsburgh Steelers, new car models and other things that dads and store owners talked about in the ’70s.

When we finally pulled the loaded-down station wagon into the garage, all five sisters were alerted and the massive unloading process — it looked like a Red Cross operation — commenced.

We usually got everything packed away by 8 PM, just in time to head to the family room to watch “The Waltons,” a show about John-boy and his large rural family making their way through the Great Depression.

We’d bring down a bowl of ice and then open some bottles of Regent soda pop, the orange being our favorite. (Grape was the next most popular, followed by cherry, then cola, then root beer.)

I was usually the first one to open the Snyder’s of Berlin chips. And as I tore open the heavy foil bag, my senses were overwhelmed by the smell of freshly fried chips. I’d load them into a few bowls and set them on the tables.

And there sat my sisters and my parents, watching the Waltons, eating the finest chips ever made, sipping our soda and feeling safe and secure.

It was Thursday, after all, and the weekend was soon to come. The house was loaded to the hilt with food, which was always a fine feeling. My mother and father were together and with us and all was right with the world.

I didn’t know then how lucky I was to enjoy such security.

I didn’t understand that what I was enjoying was the fruit of the labors of two people who put their children’s needs so far before their own that we didn’t know they had needs.

My dad and I would talk about all kinds of things on those Thursday nights, his calm presence and words filling me with wisdom I’d call upon later in my life.

He worked long hours and came home tired, but he still made time for us.

Long before numerous studies verified it, my parents instinctively understood that when a mother and father are present and engaged, their kids flourish. My father’s part of that equation — the time he made even when he was tired — turns out to have been especially powerful.

Studies routinely find that children with engaged dads have fewer behavioral problems, stronger social skills, better cognitive development and healthier emotional lives.

Boys with involved fathers are less likely to get into mischief, and girls are less likely to struggle with depression.

Meanwhile, children whose fathers are less involved are roughly twice as likely to face school problems and more than three times as likely to be diagnosed with depression.

To be sure, the old model of a mother and father putting their kids first is not outdated nostalgia.

The evidence is clear that it still delivers the security and the results children need.

We lost my dad four years ago at 89 — but his presence will always be strong in me.

I doubt he ever imagined that one of my fondest memories of him would be something as mundane as shopping for groceries.

All I know is that when I open a fresh bag of Snyder’s of Berlin potato chips, I am filled again with the security and happiness I felt so long ago, because my mother and father were together and putting us first.