How Far We’ve Come

When I think of my dad growing up, I picture him in a suit and tie, always neatly put together. He was meticulous with his clothes, buying his shirts and suits from Henry’s, a high-end store in Wichita in the ’70s and ’80s. The rest of us—my mom, my sisters, and I—shopped at more mainstream places like J.C. Penney and Sears. But Henry’s felt different. It was Dad’s store.

His clothes were always carefully looked after—sent out for dry cleaning, shirts returned neatly pressed, wrapped in thin plastic, carrying that faint, clean smell of starch when they came home.

He owned and ran a successful auto body repair shop, spending most of his time in the office rather than out on the shop floor. He dealt with vendors, suppliers, insurance companies, and the occasional accountant. It was only after his passing, when I ran it for a short time, that I realized it wasn’t common to see someone dressed quite so dapper in that environment.

On rare occasions, my dad would take me downtown to work with him. Before heading to the office, we would stop for breakfast at a diner in the heart of the city. I don’t remember what it was called back then, but today it’s known as The Beacon. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and coffee, and from our booth I could watch the activity around the Wichita Eagle newspaper building next door. Sitting across from this distinguished-looking gentleman in his suit and tie, I felt important. For a little while, I was part of his world.

Dad grew up during the Great Depression. His family didn’t have much money, and success didn’t come overnight. He tried his hand at real estate for a time, but it didn’t work out. From what I was told, money was pretty tight during those years. Later, he went to work for automotive companies and eventually became the manager of a body shop that he would one day purchase himself.

His business eventually thrived and provided well for our family of seven. The shop carried his name, and every so often someone would recognize him because of it. As a child, I remember feeling proud when that happened. At the time, I didn’t fully appreciate what it meant. Now, I see it as evidence of the reputation he had earned through years of hard work and professionalism.

Looking back, it feels like the clothes were less about appearance and more about meaning. They were a marker of how far he’d come—a sense of having made it, of success earned over time. He never wore his nice clothes to feel better than anyone else. What mattered wasn’t the label, but what it represented to him. For my dad, Henry’s symbolized arrival, dignity, and a life he was proud of.

My dad wasn’t unique in this. Most of us have something—a small, private marker—that tells us we’ve crossed an invisible line and arrived somewhere we once hoped to be. It can be something material, like driving a certain kind of car when we make a certain amount of money. Or it can be a deeply personal milestone that would make little sense to anyone else but means everything to us because of where we started and what it took to get there.

I see now that the way he presented himself was my father’s way of marking a journey that began long before I was born. When I was young, I simply saw a man who liked nice shirts and well-tailored suits. Now I see someone who had worked hard to build a life he could be proud of.

These days I sometimes wonder what my own version of Henry’s might be. As a child, I dreamed of traveling to other parts of the world. After moving from Wichita to Colorado, I began to picture the life I wanted for myself. It included healthy, happy sons, a fulfilling career, a circle of good friends, and someone special to share it all with.

When those pieces gradually fell into place, I finally took the trips I had only imagined years before. Italy, Paris, and other destinations that once seemed impossibly far away became real. Looking back, I realize those journeys weren’t just vacations. They were my own quiet reminder that the life I had hoped for had, in many ways, come to pass.

Maybe that’s why I understand my dad a little better now. Henry’s wasn’t really about the clothes, just as my travels were never really about the destinations. They were both markers of a life built over time, one step at a time, and a way of acknowledging how far we’ve come.