A son reflects on his father’s legacy.
When I was about 10 years old, my dad, my sister, and I were walking our dog Bodie through the woods behind the golf course. Bodie picked up a scent and started to search, snout to the ground, stopping only when he spotted a rabbit about 10 yards away.
As the two animals tore off through the woods, I marveled at Bodie’s ability to track down the rabbit using only his nose.
I turned to my dad and said, “Sometimes I wish I could smell like a dog.”
My dad’s eyes lit up. I stormed off, furious, before he could even deliver a punch line.
*
Recently, I wrote to my dad asking for some guidance. I’d been thinking a lot about my career, wondering if it was time for me to make a change and follow in the footsteps of my dad and grandfather.
“I don’t really have any advice for you,” my dad responded, at the start of a long e-mail.
Karl Lindholm ’67 started working at Middlebury in 1976, the same year that his father, my grandfather Milt, retired as the dean of admissions at Bates. (Milt started working at Bates, his alma mater, at the age of 33 and stayed for 32 years; my dad’s tenure at Middlebury began at the age of 31 and has lasted 34 years.) Hired in the student affairs office, Dad ended up working just about everywhere—teaching in the American literature and American civilization departments; serving at various times as dean of students, advising, off-campus study, and just about every Commons; and even helping out with the baseball team. Earlier this year, he decided to retire from Middlebury at the end of 2010.
Over the years, thousands of Middlebury students have come to my dad for advice of one sort or another. I know this from experience. As a kid, walking around with my dad was a painfully slow experience; we couldn’t get from Old Chapel to McCullough without 10 students stopping him with a question about study abroad or the drop/add deadline.
When we left campus, getting from Ben Franklin to Forth ’N Goal could take 20 minutes; alums, parents, and friends would stop him for a friendly chat. Even in California, at the kid’s paradise that is Disneyland (I was seven), I heard the familiar call of “Dean Lindholm!” from yet another former student, wanting to catch up with Dad, to thank him for something from years before.
The e-mail that my dad wrote to me actually did, of course, contain plenty of advice. Some of his recommendations were what I expected: “Don’t be narrow, enjoy many facets of life, develop your whole self,” and yet at the same time, “Don’t sell yourself short. Go for the gold, if that’s what you want. Don’t be afraid to.”
But he also surprised me when he talked about his own career.
“I have had a hard time specializing, devoting myself to one thing,” he wrote. “There’s a side of me I don’t frequently expose that wonders if I might have accomplished more with my life.”
With experience in so many roles, Dad has made a career out of being a “Master Jack-of-all-Trades,” as he describes it. This made him indispensable at Middlebury; when a dean for a new department was needed, Karl was always there, and he could bring his perspective and experience to get the job done. But it also made him wonder if he lacked ambition, which kept him from rising to the very top of his field.
I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t as easy for my dad to see what he had achieved as it was for me. For all of my 28 years, he’s been helping me with every crisis I’ve had, from small and practical (“this English paper sucks and I need help with it”) to the large and existential (“what the hell am I doing with my life?”). Not only that, but I’ve seen him do the same for countless Middlebury students.
He signed off the e-mail with his best advice.
“Take care,” he wrote. “Be good. Have fun. Work hard.”
*
My dad has a story for every occasion, and there’s often a lesson behind it. I don’t think he always knows exactly what he’s teaching, but there’s always something to learn.
Since that day almost 20 years ago, the story of how I wished that I could smell like a dog has become a Lindholm family favorite. Somewhere along the line, after hearing my dad tell the tale a few thousand times, I learned to ease up and laugh along.
I’ve grown up a lot since that day in the woods. I no longer spend much time wishing that I could smell like a dog.
Now all I want to be able to do is teach like my dad.
David Lindholm writes from Los Angeles, California.