Reflections on Boyd Bushman

by His Son, Bryan

 

The most common word used to describe my father is, “interesting.” I learned at an early age this is a word with many meanings. The word sounds benign enough, which is precisely the point: It is a way for the speaker to be honest without being too honest. “I met your dad the other day,” someone would say with a slight smile, “…it was interesting.” I always found the phrasing significant: “It was interesting” not “He was interesting.” The difference I believe is in emphasis. “It was interesting” suntly communicates an experience, not just an attribute ascribed to a person. Sometimes I meet people who do not know my father, yet they will want me to tell them a little bit about him. I always find the task impossible. Boyd Bushman is someone you have to experience, not someone who can easily be described or encapsulated with words.

Of course, I’ve heard other words used to describe dad: “It was fascinating.” was another common description. Some find dad simply “interesting,” suggesting that they try to talk with him for a few minutes and then give up. Some find him “fascinating,” suggesting they are among those brave souls who attempt to follow him down the rabbit hole. Of course, others simply shake their head, suggesting they didn’t even bother. I feel sorry for the last group, although at time, especially during my early years, I admit that I was one of them.

Some will secretly confide that talking with dad makes them feel “dumb.” This is sad because I don’t think I’ve ever heard dad judge anyone for not understanding him. In fact, he probably would sympathize with their plight.

Given these contradictions and contrasts, how do I describe him?

First, dad is eternally optimistic and engaged with life. He frequently speaks of how nature “talks” to him, suggesting a deep intuition coupled with a serious scientific mind. Some are analytical. Some are poets. Through his constant zeal for discovery, Boyd Bushman is somehow both.

Dad also has a generous spirit. As I stated before, dad doesn’t really judge others—even those who may dismiss him as being strange or eccentric. Dad inquires deeply into the lives of others; almost as if he truly believes that no one’s life is boring—no one’s story not worth hearing. As an insecure teenager, I still remember going with dad on our Saturday morning “downtowns” and him inquiring deeply into the life of a checkout lady: who she was, what she wanted, her strengths and fears, etc. Dad seemed oblivious to an embarrassed son who was fixated on the increasing number of impatient customers lining up behind us. Some of dad’s unsuspecting prey may have simply been patronizing him, but I think many were startled, yet charmed, by him: startled and charmed by the genuine interest he showed in them. Dad never met anyone he didn’t think of as being interesting or at least worthy of knowing.

Of Course, dad can be frustratingly and intentionally provocative. I think dad hates pat answers given without thought for pleasantries sake. I feel sorry for Sunday School teachers who are simply trying to get through their lessons when dad makes a comment with the seeming intent of gumming up the works. Seeing dad do this repetitively reminds me of what I understand about the life and death of the philosopher, Socrates—a man who continued to ask questions and refute simplistic answers, and who, not coincidentally, was the first man in recorded history to be sentenced to death by a democracy for essentially being a pain-in-the-ass. Of course, when this tendency is pointed out to him, dad will smile in both an innocent and a sly way, seemingly aware that, despite what others may wish, hemlock is not a viable option anymore. The gleam in his eye is enough to convince me that being mischievous is somewhat of an art form and something you don’t have to grow too old for.

On our downtown trips, dad would gravitate toward any opportunity to break convention. We would go to some public place and more often than my mother was made privy to, dad would go behind any door that said, “Do not enter.” It was odd for me to be the voice of reason at age ten: “Hey, dad, maybe we shouldn’t go back there.” But he would smile and shrug his shoulders and off he went, knowing he had the car keys and I was obligated to follow. We were caught a few times, but nothing ever happened to us. Partially because whoever caught us could sense that dad meant no harm, and partially because they couldn’t follow his response to such a simple question as, “What were you doing back there?”

Yes, it is hard to get a straight answer from dad. Answers to even simple questions can take a lot of mental effort. But listening is the price you pay for knowing him. And the price is worth the cost of admission. After all, dad is more than willing to listen to others, and people like him do not come along often enough.

Unfailing in his loyalty, I never have questioned his love for me or his love for my mother. In many ways my parents could not be more different. My mother is practical and grounded. My father is theoretical and ethereal. My mother is realistic and more cautious. My father is optimistic and expansive. I always joke that when I call home and want to know how things are “really’ going, I will talk to dad and get a rosy picture, then talk to mom and get a more realistic picture. The actual truth is usually somewhere in the middle. My mother and my father are the Yin and Yang of my existence. I am a better man for having both influences in my life.

Despite his difficult-to-follow theories, he appreciates the simple: a good book, a good meal, a conversation with a friend, a long drive. On my Saturday morning outings with him, I would always want to go to the mall—a place he must have hated with all its lights and stimulation. In contrast, he wanted to go to the lake where he would simply want to sit and watch the waves come in. Upon reflection, maybe these were the moments when nature would “talk” with him, and were opportunities for me to join in the conversation. And if I didn’t want to join, then that would be just fine too. Dad is good at allowing people this space, which provides others the freedom they need to find their own path. At the time, I thought sitting and reflecting as he did was very boring. Now I find myself acting like him (much to my wife’s rising alarm): commemorating him whenever I pause to appreciate a sunset, drive a stretch of road, or sit quietly and read.

During a dark period of my life, he was willing to listen to me. He was my lifeline and my support. Even when I couldn’t understand what he was saying to me, there was a sense of being listened to and being accepted by him. By trade, I am a psychologist. It seems each day I hear people recount how they have felt rejected by their parents. While I know dad didn’t approve of all of my decisions, I can never imagine him emotionally disowning me or any of my siblings. It simply would not be in his nature. He and my mother are my greatest cheerleaders—and the confidence that has provided me is a heritage I hope to pass down to my children.

These are the reflections I have about my father. They are my heritage. And it is a rich one. Because the world, and my life, would be much less interesting without him in it.