When I got my first jobs in my hometown, my coworkers teased me because many of the people who came into the stores immediately identified me as “Al Stauffer’s boy.” My Dad was pretty well known in our town through his work on the parish council at our school and church and within the community and so people recognized me right away and always felt the need to come over and tell me to say hi to my father.

 At first, I was annoyed by this. I had just graduated college and was feeling like I needed to make a mark of my own, but everywhere I went there was a reminder that I was “Al Stauffer’s boy,” making it that much harder to be known for myself. Everywhere I went I was labeled as “Al Stauffer’s boy” and I felt I could never get past this. The Stauffers were recognized far and wide and it seemed I would never be able to make my own name.

 One day in the last summer I lived with my parents, my Dad and I were traveling upstate to Binghamton to see his Aunt Clara when my Dad’s car (which he had allowed me to drive for the first time) broke down along a stretch of what is now called I86/17. My Dad took one look under the hood and was stumped. We started to contemplate the long walk back to one of the stops to get help (yes, these were the days before cell phones), when all of a sudden, the driver of a van heading the other way began beeping his horn and yelling out the window. He past us, went to the next exit, and came back around going our way. He pulled up behind our stuck car and asked, “Aren’t you Al Stauffer?” Dad identified himself and the man claimed that he recognized my Dad from our church (some 100 miles away). He said that he was an auto mechanic and offered his services – a few minutes and we were on our way.

 My Dad always had that ability: to make a mark on people’s lives that made them want to help him out. He told me the strange story of once accidentally bumping into someone who remembered him from school, who turned out to be a friend of my Mom’s brother. That chance encounter with an old friend helped him to meet my Mom. He never boasted about these encounters – in fact he always seemed a bit mystified, as if some careful angel was watching over him.

 I’ve encountered people who knew my Dad in some of the strangest places on earth: once on my honeymoon on the Isle of Skye, my wife, Becky, and I met people who remembered my Dad from the old neighborhood. People I’d never met before recognized my name from a reservation or an ID and would tell me some story of an encounter they’d had with him. Becky – who I’m sure never quite believed the stories we told about my Dad – got to witness first hand the impact he’d made on the people at the places my Dad frequented when he still lived in New York when we went into a pizza parlor nearly 10 years after my folks had left for Arizona. The people running the place greeted us like family, and even one of the customers was able to tell us stories about him.

 Years later, now, and I’m making my own way in the world. I can only hope to have the impact on people’s lives that my father had: his crazy jokes, his warm friendship. I’m not worried if I’m still sometimes identified as “Al Stauffer’s boy,” as that only means that people recognize some piece of my Dad living on in me. I just hope I can live up to that recognition. 

​Kelly's Kastle