In his memoir, John Cleese fondly pays tribute to Mr. Bartlett, his public school maths master, who became a role model for him and the other boys. Cleese says Bartlett was influential because he knew a lot and made doing so attractive, but especially because of his “fastidious demeanor: his life appeared to be a continuous one-gentleman crusade against vulgarity.”

Cleese hastens to add this was not about anything so obvious as crude talk, insulting behavior, “tacky clothing, drunkenness, bling, shaved heads, tattoos…No, Mr. Bartlett was appalled (his favorite word) by much subtler stuff: for example, by the slightest hint of ‘showing off’ or drawing attention to oneself – what he called ‘self-advertisement.’”

Reading this praise of the virtues of a bygone era, I thought of my father. He was a lovely fellow — genial, modest, and decent — whose most incendiary expression of rage was ”Jesus wept!” He left college after a year and a half because his father’s death and the Great Depression required him to get a job to help support his mother. He enlisted at 32 and served in the Pacific Theater heading a team of B-29 mechanics.

He returned and worked a factory job until he retired, bowled in a league, worked crossword puzzles, read mysteries, watched the Browns and Indians and Ohio State on the tube. After he retired, he played bridge, and took care of my mother and grandmother until they died, all without bitching, moaning, cursing fate or having second thoughts. He believed to his core in doing one’s duty, doing the right thing, playing the cards you’re dealt, and playing by the rules.

He embodied an American version of what Cleese describes as Mr. Bartlett’s “Edwardian gentleman’s approach to life: courtesy, grace, restraint. The careful avoidance of embarrassing others, non-intrusiveness, considerateness, kindness, modesty, self-effacement…But the charm of it all was that there was humor, and indeed, a hint of playfulness in his constant state of “being appalled.”

Here’s a picture of Dad at work. My mother hated to see proselytizing sectarians hove into view and would have chased Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses and others of their ilk off the front porch with a broom if left to her own devices. By contrast, Dad would not let them in the house, but would step onto the porch and have them explain in some detail what they believed, why they believed it, and why certain contradictions or implausibilities didn’t bother them. When he intuited that their need to sell had been satisfied and his wife’s ire was about to come to a rolling boil, he’d say he envied their faith, bid them a cheery adieu, and return to the ball game on TV. Explosion averted. Honor preserved.

If Dad were alive today, he’d spend a lot of time being appalled. As a man of the Depression and World War II generation, he’d be all for equal rights which is simply treating each other decently, but he’d roll his eyes at our sense of entitlement. Times are hard? Too bad. Work hard. Do your best. Take care of your family. Carry on.

He loved sports as an almost aesthetic pleasure, but also as a stage for admirable behavior. He would have liked to have been a shortstop or a sportscaster if the ball of his life had taken a different hop. He especially admired self-effacing pros who went about their business without showboating or grandstanding, who acknowledged the fans with a modest tip of the cap, and expected fair play of themselves and their rivals. Bob Feller was a particular favorite, as was his fellow Columbus native Jack Nicklaus. Cal Ripkin Jr. too.

Not surprisingly, he did not care for Ali’s patter and flash, was appalled by Dennis Rodman and may even have said something stronger than “Jesus wept” when Art Modell moved the Browns to Baltimore, betraying fans for filthy lucre. In his balance sheet of life, there were things a lot more important than money.

He was firmly on catcher Carleton Fisk’s side when he dressed down Deion Sanders for swaggering up to the plate, drawing a dollar sign with his bat in the dirt, and then not running out a pop fly. Fisk got in Neon’s smug face and told him (with expletives deleted) that it was a game of honor and integrity and that Sanders was not respecting the game, the fans, or his teammates. “There’s a right way to play the game and a wrong way. And you’re playing it wrong and it offends me and if you don’t shape up I’m going to kick your ass right here at home plate.”

Perhaps that last bit would have been a bit strong for the old man, but he would surely have shared the sentiment. Today, needless to say, he would be in a perpetual state of appalled. Imperial hubris. Political dirty tricks. Unkept promises. Wall Street chicanery. Wretched excess. Reality TV. Trophy wives. Slacker heroes. Glorified thuggery. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Endless self-advertisement. Rush Limbaugh. Kardashians. Howard Stern. And the epitome of vulgarity: President and First Lady of the United States Donald J. and Melania K. Trump.

Jesus wept!