When I was a child, I was very inquisitive. Coming from a family of eleven children, one-on-one time with a parent was special. I used to love going with my dad on Saturdays to make the bank drop and get a lollipop after his Saturday morning office visits.
We had what’s called a home-office combination. The front of our home had a welcoming entrance to my father’s chiropractic office. There was a waiting room, the chiropractic assistants’ main area, my father’s private office, four patient rooms, a bathroom, and a darkroom for developing films.
The architect who built and lived in the home before our family had designed most of it with large floor-to-ceiling windows. This entertained the chiropractic assistants, who from their side of the house could see us children playing and being the silly, adventurous sorts we were.
The other half of the house was busy with cooking, cleaning, reading, playing the piano and many other instruments, vinyl records, and Atari. There was chatting on the phone and constant entering and exiting of the yard—and the many places a family of thirteen would go. This made for entertainment for the patients as well.
They would guess what delectable dish my mother was cooking, hear the occasional plunk on the piano with the thoughtless vocalizing that coincided with whatever ’70s or ’80s tune was playing, and catch the clink of seven ice cubes filling my dad’s large glass mugs of distilled water, followed by the three beeps on the intercom if the home was getting a bit too loud.
Through our windows we were entertained by the ongoing game of tag with the squirrels who resided so abundantly in the tall trees throughout the property. If you were lucky, you might spot a fluffy white-tailed bunny. We identified the many beautiful birds that frequented our area—red cardinals, blue jays, robins, and blackbirds, to name a few.
My mother, Sarah, loved to point out her favorite birds and often had a short poem or country phrase to share about that type of bird. It was important to her to cook three meals a day from scratch, and she loved to listen to her favorite classical station or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on her shortwave radio in the background.
We would chuckle at the new patient who drove down the long driveway only to wonder how the office in front had quickly transformed into a sea of bicycles, and which door was the entrance. As kids, we would run out to help the “lost” soul find their way back to the office and patient parking. This eventually led to the placement of the “horses” to block the top of the driveway.
Those two traffic blockades soon attracted two childlike monkeys who climbed all over them and used them as part of our obstacle course. My little brother whipped around them with his handy Big Wheel handbrake, and I followed on my smokin’ fast banana-seat Schwinn.
Our chiropractic assistants—a.k.a. C.A.s, or at times second mothers—either found amusement while busily working or gave the occasional rap on the window and a disapproving look if they saw us engaging in a feat that would wind us up next in line for my dad’s office services.
My dad had a subtle sense of humor and great little one-liners. Little did I know these were life-learning phrases. I recall being befuddled by one woman who deemed herself a church-going, well-respected person yet too often came across as short-tempered and cold. My dad eased my mind by quietly telling me under his breath that she was about as cuddly as a cactus, with a little smirk to follow. We would quietly chuckle to ourselves, and the little phrase resolved my concern and dissipated the confusion.
As a child, I didn’t like my dad to go out of town for work seminars. Sometimes he would let me go up to the airport tower to watch the planes fly in at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport before he jetted off to one of his destinations. One time I asked him why he liked to work and attend these seminars, not understanding what could be better than spending time with me.
On many occasions I would put my ear up to the sliding wooden door separating the house from the office and listen to hear if my dad was meeting with a patient. If it was quiet, I would carefully slide the door open a crack. I might have an adventure to share, an injustice to declare, or—if I was lucky—I might find my dad peeling down the paper of one of his many flavors of Life Savers.
My dad was a large-built, strong, macho kind of man, yet he made it a practice to always give a reassuring hug or hearty handshake when greeting his patients. I recall asking him, more out of disdain, why he always got up from his desk to greet them. I was conveniently standing right next to his private candy drawer, perfectly poised to ask if he would like me to get him a Life Saver—in this case, I would have suggested the butter-rum or cherry flavor. To my dismay, I was interrupted as my dad hopped up to greet a patient in the next room.
When he returned, I asked him why he always hugged his patients. My great big dad quietly and reverently told me it was something he had learned called the Love Concept. I’m sure I shot him a “what are you talking about?” glance, and he went on to explain. He said he had great respect for a man named Dr. James Parker. I knew this name well because my dad attended and taught at many of the Parker seminars. He said that people heal better when they know they are loved and cared about. He made it a goal to reach out to each of his patients in the office every day, because there is power in the human touch.
There was a humble quietness in the room after my dad shared this with me—this big, tough protector of mine making sure his patients knew that he cared about and loved them. I recall overhearing an older man, one of his last patients of the day because he had a labor-intensive manufacturing job. The man choked up when my dad gave him a hearty hug and said he hadn’t been hugged in a very long time. It was no wonder to me that my dad’s patients became friends and returned to his office for years, and some for decades.
When I was twelve, my younger brother and I began attending these seminars with our parents. We had our classes respective to our age. I recall a chiropractor’s wife, I believe from Arizona, teaching a story about the lively wife who made life exciting and playful in her home but went too far, so the family all too often ate late at night—compared to the highly disciplined but not-too-fun wife who ran an orderly but boring home—and how a happier home would be a balance of the two. I remember how genuinely happy and fun these seminars were, and the many successful families I saw.
When I woke up this morning, thoughts of this Love Concept came to mind. I wanted to write them down. I looked up the school where my father was an instructor in his later years—Parker College of Chiropractic. In retrospect, he could have taught anywhere, but he moved our family from Illinois to Texas so he could be part of this college and its teachings. I was surprised to find the Love Concept had many more ideas. A flood of remembrances ensued. I see now that these ideals shaped my life in many more ways than I ever knew.
I hear my father’s voice in such phrases as:
- “If it is to be, it is up to me.”
- “Do not let the negative few overrule the positive many.”
- “I will anticipate the good—even during the bad.”
- “Loving service is my first technique.”
- “Develop a compassion to serve that is greater than the compulsion to survive.”
My heart is warmed in hearing the strength of my dad’s voice in these words today. A legacy I will always treasure. I love you, Dad. You are missed.
Dr. Alfred Z. States
October 12, 1929 to January 23, 2009
