At Any Rate That’s My Dad
A New Book from Jackson Gray Books
COMING SOON
Author Jack Livingston Describes the Book
Proceeds from At Any Rate That’s My Dad are donated to:
Boys & Girls Club of East Aurora
Dad was eighty-six when he came to visit in June of 2022. He flew through two time zones, rented a car (because he liked having his own wheels) and after a full day of traveling, he wore a happy smile when he pulled in our driveway. He had no specific plans for the week, except to see a Buffalo Bisons’ baseball game, frequent his favorite ice cream stand (Nick Charlaps), and spend time with his family. That’s the way Dad liked things. Keep it simple.
Three hours into his stay, Dad missed the bottom step on our deck stairs and face planted in the driveway. “I’m okay,” he told me. He had a nasty gash across his face and needed help getting to his feet. There was so much blood in the driveway it looked like a crime scene. Poor Dad, why did this happen? Six hours later we learned Dad had broken his back. And two days after that he had surgery to fix his back.
Again, I wondered; why did this happen? I looked forward to Dad’s visits and now we were hanging out at the hospital, then at rehab, and finally, nursed him back to health at our house. His surgery was successful, but there were other issues. He was retaining fluid in his legs and the skin on his ankles split open.
Why?
Dad sat on the edge of his bed at my house, as I cleaned his wounds and reapplied his bandages.
Things got worse.
“Dad,” I said. “We better take a look at your feet.”
Dad looked at me on my knees, washing his feet, and told me, “Jack, I want you to know how much I appreciate all that you do for me.” Then he smiled and added, “I know how difficult this is for you.” Those simple words from Dad meant so much to me. They stuck with me.
“Thanks, Dad,” I answered. And then, as always, going for a joke, I told him, “This is child abuse.” And we both laughed.
The whole time, Dad never complained. That wasn’t his style. And while he recuperated, we made good use of Dad’s extended stay in Western New York. We even got to a Bison’s game. But the best part was that it afforded us the time to work on something we hadn’t found time for in the past.
Dad told me his stories.
And I wrote them down.
Dad’s stories weren’t about climbing mountains, making the world news, winning trophies, or surviving near-death experiences. They were about regular things. Little boy Dad, funny Dad, loyal Dad, friendly Dad, creature of habit Dad, and most of all, unconditional love for his family Dad. The best part of Dad’s stories was listening to him tell them. And it gave us another reason to spend time with each other. I treasure those stories and our time together more than anything Dad could have left behind.
And so, now I have my answer. I know why? Why something that seemed so bad at the time was something so good.
Thanks for the memories, Dad. Thanks for everything you did for us. And most of all thanks for loving us. We love you back.
What People Are Saying About
At Any Rate That’s My Dad
“How many of us wish that we’d spoken with our parents, grandparents or loved ones to hear their life stories in their own words before they left us? Author Jack Livingston did just that with his father, Bill, in the years before he passed away in 2024. At Any Rate That’s My Dad is a heartwarming collection of conversations between a father and his son. Produced with Jack’s gentle prodding and rendered with a fine ear for his father’s speech and mannerisms, we hear about Bill’s early days in Buffalo, his love of baseball, commitment to his family, and Jack’s evolution into the role of caregiver for his dad. On these two-dimensional pages, Bill Livingston becomes three-dimensional, preserved forever in dialogue and prose.”
Rick Ohler, author of Have You Lived Here All Your Life? “… Not Yet.”
“I spent a summer weekend getting to know a man I’d never met through the wonderful conversations he had with his son. Truly a family treasure, these stories made me laugh and sometimes cry, but always made me happy that I had the chance to meet Jack’s dad.”
Debbie Sullivan
“Friendships are forged by life experiences, tempered by shared values and interests. Bill and I enjoyed a rich and enduring bond that began with our shared faith. That bond included a love of railroading, gardening, wine tasting, and sports. It was a blessing to call Bill a dear friend and neighbor. Enjoy these passages written by his son, Jack, that capture the spirit of this great man.”
Alan Swajkoski, MD
Excerpt from At Any Rate That’s My Dad
By Jack Livingston | NFB Publishing - Amelia Press
Mr. Girvin’s Funeral
1950
“Who was Mr. Girvin, Dad? I don’t remember you ever talking about him. Was he one of Grandpa’s friends?”
“Nooo,” Dad stretched out his one-word response to emphasize his point that he was definitely not a friend. “He lived two doors down from us on Lancaster Avenue toward Delaware. Mr. Girvin wasn’t a pleasant guy. He didn’t like kids.”
“How do you know he didn’t like kids?”
“He just didn’t. He didn’t like it when you played ball in the street in front of his house. He’d holler at us and tell us to find somewhere else to play. And he thought he was an authority on everything.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He was always telling you how much he knew about everything. His father had been the police commissioner of Buffalo, or something like that. At any rate ...” Dad started a lot of sentences with those three words, “At any rate.” It's a helpful phrase when your stories have arms and legs. Dad would often take me on a side trip while attempting to remember what happened so many years ago.
“It was early in the morning. Grandpa had already left for work, and I noticed a big black car parked in front of Mr. Girvin’s house. You know, a hearse. And I knew he’d died a few days prior.” Dad cleared his throat and continued, “Oh, and this is important, you know that bugle that you dropped a marble into?”
How could I forget? As a kid I’d rendered the instrument useless. I’d thought it would be cool to drop a cat's-eye marble into the bugle, tilt it back-and-forth and listen to the marble roll through the brass tubing. Why does a kid do such a thing? I listened to the marble until it could go no further, then tilted it so I could hear it roll back out and do it again. The marble didn’t budge. I tapped it against the floor. And when that didn’t release the marble, I slammed it on the hardwood. Nothing. For over fifty years, there have been no toots from the bugle. For years it had rested silently on a shelf in Dad’s TV room.
“That was Uncle Pope’s boy scout bugle, you know?”
“I didn’t know that.” I hoped Dad had forgiven me for my errant judgment, but I wasn’t so sure.
Dad grinned and did that little half-laugh thing he did when he was about to tell you something funny. He continued with his story, “I grabbed the bugle and headed up to the third floor. Your Uncle George was with me, egging me on. We opened one of those heavy wooden windows up there. They were practically painted shut. We never opened them because we didn’t have any screens. It was quite an operation; it took both of us to pry it open. The hearse was parked in the street and there were people milling around in front of Mr. Girvin’s house. Your Uncle George told me, ‘Do it!’ You know how he was. So, I stuck the bugle out the window, put it to my lips, and began to play taps from the third floor.”
I laughed, thinking of my straitlaced father, not known as a prankster, pointing the bugle at the gathered crowd in front of Mr. Girvin’s house. “How long did you play for?”
“Not long. Your grandmother ran up the stairs and told me, ‘Stop that right now!’ She wasn’t very happy with me.”
“So, what else happened?” I asked, hoping for more to the story.
“It ended rather quickly. Your grandmother saw to that.” Dad paused before adding, “I wasn’t a very good bugle player.”
