Reflections on Father's Day
Yeah, I'm a father, and a grand-father, but that's not what this is about. Well maybe, in that I never lived up to
my view of
my dad.
My dad had emphysema and about 15 years earlier had fallen across a water bar while surveying timber and damaged his spine. If he did something to twist his spine the wrong way his digestive system would lock down and the gas would build up until the spine finally started processing info and the digestive system would start up again. This isn't good for emphysema patient as the digestive system pushes up against the diaphram and limits already limited oxygen intact.
Dad died June 28, 1999. I was holding his hand and my wife was with me (thanks dear). I'd been trying to wet his lips with an ice cube and encouraging him to keep breathing. It never occurred to me that he wouldn't stop fighting for life but he was struggling so hard. Every breath was a struggle and he would stop until I'd say, "just one more Dad, you can do it." He'd take another breath, I
know he was hearing me. But holding his hand, I just knew he didn't have it in him although he wouldn't quit, maybe so he wouldn't let me down. I told him it was ok, he could stop and he did. Of course I cried.
But his death took no time at all. His life had taken 72+ years. Dad had been a farmer (farm kid if you prefer), graduated high school at age 16, volunteered to serve in WWII as soon as he was able & been a soldier from 1945-1947 and again in 1950-1951, he had graduated from Syracuse University, earned a Masters degree in forestry from Yale, and earned the respect and friendship of hundreds of coworkers in the US Forest Service over 27 years of government service. He was married to my Mom for 45 years. He didn't lie, steal, cheat, speak badly about others, complain about his own situation, or shirk work. He helped his neighbors without asking, voted in every election, paid his taxes and debts on time, and raised 3 children.
Dad and Mom had me first followed 3 years and some months later by my sister and then 14 years after Sis by my brother. June 21, 1981, my brother was hit while crossing the street and died the next day. That was the first time I ever saw Dad cry. It was also the last.
I think my parents did a good job raising me. I was ready for the service and had no problem making a bed, polishing boots/shoes or being on time to anything. No problem taking orders either! I could speak well, read and write well, and didn't need constant supervision. That's success, as I've discovered, but I had no idea at the time.
Now most kids spend a lot of time with their mothers but I spent a lot of time with my dad as well. If he did any chores I was more than welcome to tag along. As he did things he'd explain what, why & how and if I was up to it I could help, at least in some small way. He'd let me try just about anything and would give me enough rope to ALMOST hang myself but never let me too close to that point. He'd introduce me to all the people he knew that we'd meet while doing these chores. What's more they would talk to me as if I had something to say. I guess the old saying about birds of a feather was true. In short my childhood was good.
Oh, yeah, Dad did "correct" me a time or two. But, I have to admit that I needed the "correction". I'm not quite certain whether it was because of my own character or Dad's that "corrections" seldom needed a second application! I'm thinking my character was the result of a lifetime of "corrections" most of which, particularly the early ones, are forgotten.
Lots of good times to remember and a great life resulted from his time with me. I'm very thankful Dad and I'm looking forward to seeing you again when I get to where you are.
