The Bank of Dad

The Bank of Dad

I have a friend named Tad.  Tad has had both an easy and difficult life all at once.  I wish I was giving you a made-up name, but I’m not.  The name Tad sort of reeks of privilege doesn’t it?  It’s not quite Bootsy, but it’s right up there screaming White, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant all at once.  I’ve known Tad for thirty-five years now.  Since he was twenty-five when we met, that must mean he is sixty now.  When I first met Tad, he was a young buck whose father had been the CFO of perhaps the most prestigious bank on Wall Street.  While Dad had gone to my alma mater, Cornell, Tad had gone to Harvard and Philips Andover Academy before that.  If there were gold stars for privilege, Tad was a four-star kind of guy.

Tad is the guy that gave me one of the most useful expressions I have in my arsenal of self-deprecation.  That is the term The Bank of Dad.  He was heading off from work for a ski trip and I made some comment that that was nice being able to go out west to ski as a young working stiff.  His reply was that he was going on The Bank of Dad, which was his way of saying that Dad was financing the family trip.  Ever since then I have used the expression quite freely.  One of my favorite schticks is to say that The Bank of Dad never closes and never bothers to print deposit slips.  It is my joking way to say that modern economic life involves Baby Boomers not only supporting their parents in their old age, but also supporting their children for who knows how long.  Thanks to the Affordable Care Act, I can keep my kids on my health insurance until 26…the new mandatory launch age in America.  No chance that’s when The Bank of Dad gets to close.

So, Tad went about living the Life of Riley as a young urban professional in New York City.  He skied in the winter.  He drove Dad’s speed boat across Lake Champlain in the summer.  I’m not sure what he did in the spring and fall, but I’m sure it was equally fun and special.  But then something changed.

Tad encountered a few bumps in the road.  That was not supposed to happen.  He had continued in his investment banking career and his freewheeling days until he met Ms. Right.  They were married.  They had two kids (a boy and then a girl…perfect flight configuration by American sociological standards).  The first sign of trouble was when he brashly quit his investment banking job and started up the music publishing company of his dreams.  This was the American twentieth century dream, to launch an entrepreneurial venture and make your fortune.  Except the venture failed despite Tad’s best efforts.  I’m sure The Bank of Dad had invested (along with me and many of his pals), but I’m equally sure that The Bank of Dad was kind in its write-off as we all were.  We all liked Tad and certainly know it did not fail for lack of trying.

Tad went back to investment banking, something he was cut out for and quite competent at.  He bought his apartment on the upper east side, and then he bought his vacation house on the Rhode Island shore.  Despite the little entrepreneurial hiccup, life was back on track and life and the family were growing up and moving forward as they were supposed to.  Then tragedy struck.

Tad’s wife and the mother of his two almost perfect children, was taking a walk after Thanksgiving dinner on the road near their home in Rhode Island. An old and feeble man was driving by and lost control of his car.  No malice, no forethought, no great nefarious plot, just a nasty accident of life.  He ran her down as she innocently walked off her great American family meal.  Tad was left alone with his two children to pick up the pieces of their lives.  There was little The Bank of Dad could do to help.  In fact, it was now all up to The Bank of Tad to take over.

If you had asked me before this all happened who was least prepared of my friends to grapple with such a difficult situation, I would probably have said Tad.  His life of privilege and the fact that everything usually went right for him (except maybe that music thing) would have suggested that he was ill-prepared for this sort of hardship.  But here’s the thing, Tad rallied.

Tad took the time he needed to stabilize the kids.  He certainly had the friends and family network to help, but he reached inside of himself and did what had to be done.  He took a step back in his career and took on a less exciting and more stay-at-home job to be there for the kids.  He became mother and father to them and got help with that as needed, especially for his young daughter.  He even continued in the family tradition and sent them both off to Philips Andover when they were of age.  And he was a more engaged alumnus and father than most during those years.  He even took to asking people like me to come up and guest lecture in an economics course he was helping with.

Now Tad’s kids are off in college and he has time for a bit more of a social life himself.  He has taken up stand-up comedy.  What a brilliant thing for him to do.  I don’t care whether he is good, bad or indifferent at it.  The act of poking fun at life and doing it publicly is important salve for the soul.

As for the Bank of Dad, it has changed hands.  Dad is now in full retirement in Florida.  Tad has become Dad (in many ways, indeed) and has taken over the Bank.  The Bank of Dad remains open for business for economic and emotional support. It is considering adding insurance to its product line, but that is the subject for future conjecture.  It plans to never close and it cares not whether it ever prints any deposit slips.