“Conrad Was My Dad”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

William Conrad. My famous father.

In 1971 I was ten years old. Most kids in my neighborhood were collecting baseball cards or building model kits. But I had a different pursuit in mind – setting up my first home office. It was an idea born from the inspiration provided by my dad, who was a scholar, theologian and published author. After years of sneaking into his workspace after hours, I wanted one of my own.

In our Virginia basement, I took a metal trash barrel, topped it with a square of plywood, and stationed my plastic, blue-and-white typewriter on top. A discarded electric motor with a model-airplane propeller served as my fan. For music and talk, I used the family Sears & Roebuck ‘Silvertone’ transistor radio. (AM only.)

The effect was perfect. I felt liberated and focused on my work.

Early writing projects ensued from this humble location. But none more heartfelt than speaking about a television star who echoed my own genetic sire. His character name was Cannon. Frank Cannon. A private detective, ex-cop and amateur chef of some renown.

‘Cannon’ was, like many popular shows of the era, a Quinn Martin Production. In 1971, to see a gruff, pudgy, crimefighting hero with slicked-back hair and a business suit felt glorious. Though he did not look stylish next to Jack Lord or Mike Connors, this plus-sized sleuth represented a familiar image to me – that of my own papa.

My ‘Real Dad’ had suits that were a decade or more out of date. He complained about his knees and lumbered with the gait of one who had done farm labor as a kid, before putting on extra pounds in adult life. But my ‘TV Dad’ could run after criminals, use a revolver with expert skill, and still find time to whip up an exotic recipe to impress lady guests at the end of an episode.

And his quips were perfect. Sometimes witty, sometimes amusingly odd. But much like what I might hear at home:

“Compulsion. I suppose everybody has a compulsion of some sort. Heh. I sometimes think nature invented the pistachio nut as a device to control the compulsion to eat. You know, by the time you get them shelled, you’ve lost your appetite.”

Sometimes while running home from church, dressed in my blue suit (the only ‘good clothes’ I had at the time) my imagination would grow wild. I darted between trees and shrubbery along the street, looking for evildoers. When a big Lincoln automobile would appear, I pretended that it was my car, waiting to cruise in search of evidence.

With my own march toward adulthood, I put away this fascination. Conrad passed through ‘Nero Wolfe’ along with ‘Jake and the Fatman.’ I tried to distance myself from his image. It seemed wise to develop my own signature persona. A unique expression of self.

But after a long struggle as a creative writer, and a retail business manager… there they were again. ‘Real Dad’ and ‘TV Dad.’

I was them and they were me… forever.

I had just turned 56 years old. My knees, left hip and back were shot. Mobility, something I took for granted since first crawling from my crib, became a precious commodity. I had to take early retirement in 2016. Coffee and the computer were my companions. Suddenly, 1971 loomed again over the horizon. But now I was the graying, middle-aged man in a suit. (More literally a work shirt and trousers, but the personal vibe remained intact.)

Like my heroes, I cut a profile swelled by food and caffeine.

My Roku box offered MeTV, a.k.a. Memorable Entertainment Television. A streaming channel from Chicago. There, in the wee hours of morning, I saw Conrad once again. Driving his Lincoln Continental Mark III, joking about his own heft, pursuing lawbreakers from coast to coast and growling bits of randomness with authority:

“When it comes to bluegrass music and a jukebox, I’ve got a memory like an elephant. No joke intended.”

Over four decades had passed. I could not run anymore. The hands on my biological clock spun like a windmill. My business career was over. It was too early to sit on the bench. Yet there I rested. ‘Real Dad’ remained active as an author, having reached his 80’s and more. I could only hope for such longevity. But I felt grateful for his parentage. And for television reruns.

William Conrad. Fat fellow with a jacket and tie. Immortal through the magic of electronic media. And everlasting as the doppelganger of Dad and myself.

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