My dad was a ham, too. He could sell those women anything. Of

Paul Lynde, master of wit and laughter, once revealed with disarming honesty: “My dad was a ham, too. He could sell those women anything. Of all his sons, I was the only one he could trust to sell as well as he could. I was proud of that.” At first, these words appear playful, even lighthearted. Yet beneath them lies a timeless truth about inheritance, pride, and the sacred bond between father and son. In them we hear not only the story of selling, but the deeper story of trust—the recognition of a gift passed down, and the joy of being seen as worthy to carry it forward.

The origin of this thought lies in Lynde’s own life, long before television fame and stage lights. His father, like many men of his generation, worked with people face to face, relying on charm, humor, and confidence to make a living. To be called a ham was not an insult, but a recognition of showmanship—the ability to catch the eye, to draw a smile, to inspire confidence. In those days, selling was not merely a trade, but an art of persuasion, built on wit and personality. Lynde inherited this gift, and in recalling it, he spoke of the trust his father placed in him as one who could stand beside him, equal in skill.

The ancients, too, knew the importance of such inheritance. Consider Odysseus and his son Telemachus. In the great halls of Ithaca, the father’s cunning and eloquence were his weapons, and when Telemachus began to speak and act with wisdom like his father, it was not only a triumph for the boy, but a fulfillment of lineage. To be seen as carrying the father’s mantle is one of the oldest sources of pride, for it links generations and secures the memory of both. Lynde’s words echo this same heroic tradition—though not in the arena of kings and warriors, but in the arena of wit, persuasion, and human connection.

We can also see this reflected in history. Think of John Adams and his son John Quincy Adams. The father, a statesman of fierce intellect, entrusted his son to continue the work of leadership. When John Quincy rose to the presidency, he did so not as a mere shadow, but as a man who had inherited his father’s strength and given it new form. The pride of the father was fulfilled in the son, and the pride of the son lay in being worthy of his father’s trust. Lynde, in his simpler way, declares the same: “I was proud of that.”

But there is more. Lynde’s words remind us that pride is not arrogance when it flows from trust given and proven. To be entrusted with a father’s gift, with his approval, with his recognition, is one of the most powerful forces in shaping a soul. It is not the selling itself that mattered, but the bond—the moment when a son knew his father saw him, believed in him, and found him equal in spirit. This is a lesson not of commerce, but of kinship.

For us, the teaching is clear: seek to honor the gifts handed down to you. Whether they are gifts of craft, of word, of discipline, or of heart, do not cast them aside. To carry them forward is not only to honor yourself, but to honor those who came before you. And if you are a parent, a mentor, or an elder, remember that to trust another with your gift is to give them not only skill but dignity, not only responsibility but pride.

Practical wisdom follows: ask yourself, What have I inherited? What strength has been given to me from my family, my teachers, my community? Cherish it. Cultivate it. Use it in such a way that those who gave it would feel proud. And when you, in turn, see someone ready to carry it on, place your trust in them. In this cycle of inheritance and trust, the bonds of generations are strengthened, and the wisdom of the past is never lost.

So let Lynde’s words be remembered: “Of all his sons, I was the only one he could trust… I was proud of that.” For in this pride lies not vanity, but the joy of continuity, the power of trust, and the timeless song of fathers and sons, of elders and heirs, of gifts that do not die but live on in those who are willing to bear them.