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Geister |
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Sen. Barry Goldwater |
 James A. Griffin |
MISTAKING PAT'S DAD FOR THE FAMOUS ARIZONA SENATOR |
 Barry Goldwater |
What if your beloved dad
had a famous double?
of TheColumnists.com
James Armon Griffin was my dad. He was an Okie
who went west and made a good life. Along the way he helped
create seven children, five of whom survived. We didn't all have
the same mother, but you line us up with or without Dad and there's
no doubt he's our father. We've all got the Griffin nose.
I don't know how much of
Oklahoma or Kansas you've seen, but I can tell you for sure it
takes a lot of good nature and a blank mind to endure that part
of the planet. After getting away from the hard life of chopping
his dad's cotton and feeding his mom's chickens, one summer there
in Nevada he got the bright idea to raise chickens for the eggs
and eventually his table. Sandy, his wife, worshipped the ground
he walked on, so she agreed to it. She thought he was insane,
but she went along with it. He got the South American kind of
small chickens that lay green, blue, and gold eggs. The huge
North American chickens he bought for their table fared very
well. He made pets of them and couldn't bring himself to kill
them. One Christmas he showed up at my back door with a case
of eggs--a gross of big white eggs and medium multiple color
eggs.
I was 29, almost 30, the first time we met. He and Mom had parted
company several months before I was born. After I became a mother,
I set out to find him. The search took four years. That's
an episode I'll go into another time.
When I first saw Dad's picture I could have sworn I was looking
at Sen. Barry Goldwater. To make things more convincing,
they sounded alike. A lot of people thought so, too. He
was asked for his autograph many times. When the first
few people approached him, he explained that he wasn't the senator.
After dealing with a lot of either disappointed or doubting admirers,
he decided he would sign autographs.
"Sir, will you please give me your autograph? I'd
really appreciate it," the woman in the grocery store said.
"Of course, I'll be glad to," and he did.
"What's this?"
"It's my autograph."
"You mean you're not Senator Goldwater? Why did you
sign this?"
"Lady, you asked for my autograph, so I gave it to you."
She was speechless.
In 1975 he and Sandy (my stepmom) came to visit me here in Seattle.
At that time I was working for the Department of the Interior.
A couple of my coworkers had met him previously and knew he wasn't
the senator. Betty, whose voice sounded and carried like
a fog horn, saw him walk into the main door.
"Senator Goldwater, I'm so happy to see you," she boomed
as she walked toward him, her hand extended in greeting.
"Betty, how are you? Is my daughter here? I'd like
to take her to lunch." He was going along with the
joke.
The front office had twenty cubicles. Everyone came out
to ogle the "senator" and shake his hand. Betty
had called the other areas and told them if they wanted to see
and meet a very famous man, they better get up front in a hurry.
Immediately the whole force was there. I let it go on for
a minute before I stepped forward.
"Dad, hi. You're early." Forty-eight jaws
dropped in unison.
My boss nearly knocked me aside getting to Dad.
"Senator, your modest daughter here never told me she had
a famous father. Please, may I introduce you to all these
good civil servants?" I don't know how he expected
to do that if he kept dad's hand in a death grip.
"I don't like to disappoint you, but I'm not Senator Goldwater.
I am Pat's father, though. My name is Jim Griffin."
You could have cut the disappointment with a knife. Betty's
joke didn't go over so well. The fog horn was the only
one who laughed. Imagine the sound of a rusty door hinge
laughing, only make it a deep bass hinge.
He was a bartender at the main bar in the Golden Nugget Casino
in Carson City, Nev. When the economy took a dive during
the 1970s gasoline shortage and tourism was slow, a boozed-up
customer got extremely upset at the sight of Dad behind the bar.
"Good grief, are times so bad that even someone like you
has to take a side job? I thought a senator made a fortune."
"This is my only job. What can I get for you, sir?"
"Come on, when does the guy come out and tell me I'm on
TV, Senator Goldwater?" Poor guy, he wasn't easily
convinced. After a quick drink and no "Smile, you're
on 'Candid Camera'," he went away muttering about those
dishonest SOBs in Congress.
My tour of the Senate coincided with Senator Goldwater's speaking
in support of a House Resolution. I made my way to his office
and introduced myself to his receptionist. She was so impressed
with Dad's physical similarity in the photo I showed her, she
wanted more information. The following week Dad got a nice
letter and autographed color photo. He was thrilled!
God gave me 30 years with Dad--30 good years. Telling jokes,
playing funny tricks on each other, laughing long and hard, those
were the things we took for granted. If we had problems
or needed to talk, we were there for one another. Not being
clones, we didn't agree on all issues, but we respected the differences.
James Armon Griffin is, was, and always will be my father.
That makes me a very lucky daughter.
©2003 by Patricia J. Geister. The photo of James A. Griffin is from the author's personal archives. The Barry Goldwater image is from John Court's painting, which hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.
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