Thanks, Dad

I once saw a plaque that said, “Sometimes when I open my mouth my Mother comes out.”

I smile when I think of that plaque. My mother was a wise woman. But sometimes, when I open my mouth, my Father comes out.

Dad was one of a kind, a member of that elite group that Tom Brokaw dubbed The Greatest Generation. Born in 1927, Dad’s early years were shaped by the Great Depression and the Second World War. He was seven years old the first time he worked a team of horses, and thirteen when he took his first full-time job. He was just shy of eighteen when he was drafted into the Army.

Dad didn’t talk much about his time in the Army. We did pick up on a few stories over the years, especially  when his Army buddy came to visit. We met Ray one Saturday morning when a truck with Illinois plates pulled into the driveway. He came to the door and explained to Mother that he was looking for a man he’d met in Germany during World War II. Dad recognized Ray immediately, and they picked up where they had left off twenty-five years earlier. My favorite story from Dad’s Army experience happened early in his tour, when train loads of troops arrived in France. The weather was cold and ugly, and the soldiers were riding in unheated rail cars. On one particular stop, a group of freezing soldiers borrowed the heating stove from the rail station.

Upon returning home, Dad worked in the family business, helping run a service station and driving a fuel oil delivery truck. Dad recalled delivering oil to a family with a little white dog. “That little dog nipped at my heels the whole time I was there. I was dancing a jig while they were telling me, ‘now that dog won’t bother you.’”

The next time Dad had to deliver oil to that home, the family was away and the dog was outside. The dog turned on Dad, and Dad turned on the hose. The family came home later that day and opened the door before realizing their little white dog was a little oily. The next time they needed fuel oil, my uncle answered the phone. “We’d rather you brought our oil this time,” the man of the house explained to my uncle. “That other fellow doesn’t get along too well with our dog.”

In the early sixties, Dad went to work for the local Brown Shoe factory, where he eventually was promoted to plant engineer. Dad could build or fix anything, and on several occasions he built machines that were better than what the company could buy commercially. After twenty-six years, he accepted an opportunity to retire early. He’d been retired a little over six months when the local farmers started hay season. One morning, he looked down the quarter-mile drive and saw a truck coming. “I broke a part on my baler and didn’t know what I’d do, until I remembered you were retired. Do you think you can fix it?” Of course, Dad did; he rarely turned down a request for help.

When the safety slide on my husband’s 12-gauge shotgun malfunctioned during a trap shoot, Dad took one look at the replacement part a local shop had ordered and shook his head. “Son, I think I can make one better than that.” A few days later, hubby shook his head as he admired Dad’s handiwork, which he declared was better than the original factory part.

In his seventies, Dad injured his shoulder and couldn’t raise his arm. An MRI revealed a torn rotator cuff. The doctor explained that surgery would be necessary to repair the damage, and estimated a recovery time of at least three months. “Three months?!?” Dad exclaimed. “At my age, I may not have that long, and I’ve got too much to do.” He thanked the doctor, went home, and spent the next five years working around his injury. The biggest aggravation was not being able to raise his arm to harness his horse team. He solved that problem by building a covered harnessing chute, with a motorized hook and pulley. He would secure the harness on the hook and push a button, lifting the harness. Then, he guided each horse into the chute, brought the harness down, and completed the task.

Although his formal education ended at the eighth grade, Dad was one of the smartest men I’ve ever known. He never mentioned having regrets; he wasn’t the type. The minister at Dad’s funeral described him best, “He wasn’t big in stature, but he walked tall.” Dad faced life head on and stood up for what was right and fair, regardless of what others thought or did.

Although I missed the mechanical inclinations, there’s no question I’m my father’s daughter. I have his fine hair, blue eyes, and square jaw. But I find as I advance in years that he and I are more alike than I realized. As I face tough situations and decisions in life, even as I wonder what Dad would do, I see traces of his tenacity and grit.

Thanks, Dad.

Copyright 2016 Sherry A. Hathaway. All rights reserved.