LEAVE IT TO PEEVER
Big Orval and Me
I read Tim RussertÕs book,
ÒBig Russ and Me,Ó some time ago. His new book, ÒWisdom of Our Fathers,Ó
contains letters from sons and daughters, sent to Russert, in response to his
first book. Having missed the deadline, here is my letter about my father.
Big Orval and Me: My father
died two weeks before I graduated from high school, in 1966. He was 46. A
sudden heart attack. Forty-six seemed pretty old to an eighteen year old. IÕve
come to understand just how young it really was.
By most counts, my father
was an everyday kind of guy. He graduated from high school, went into the
service during WWII for four years, got out alive, married when he hit U.S.
soil, in Virginia Beach, had one child, me, went to trade school and became a
plumber, became president of the plumbers and pipefitters union, was commander
of the local Legion post, served on the city council, and held the 100 yard
dash record at the local high school for some twenty years. He drank a little
too much, liked spending time with his male friends bowling, shooting pool, and
playing golf. He loved to play softball, which he did the night before he died.
He was a big Democrat, not into church-going, loved cigars, and always wore
what we called a cat hat.
The evening he died I had
just returned home from a baseball game. I was eager to tell him we had won the
district championship, and I had driven in the winning run. I never got the
chance. My mother called asking me to come to the hospital, that my father had
suffered a heart attack. She didnÕt want to tell me he had died until I got
there. ÒIÕm sorry, Dad died. It was quick, they couldnÕt save him.Ó Hard words
for her to say, and for an 18 year old to comprehend. Words your never prepared
for. Eighteen years is not a long time. Still, my father taught me some things
that remain with me to this day.
One of the things he taught
me was to have respect for others, particularly anyone older than myself. The
lesson came while we were shopping for a new ball glove. I ran through the door
at the store, bolting in front of an older couple. When I turned around,
half-way to the sporting goods section, no Dad. I went back outside, there he
was talking to this couple. He was apologizing, not just for me for cutting
them off, but for himself as well. He was sorry for the inconsideration, as
though it were both of us who had stepped in front of them. I was all of 8 or
9. He told them, and me, that he hoped that would never happen again. It
hasnÕt.
One of the things my father
and I did together was go to the tavern on Sunday morning after I was out of
Sunday school. While this wouldnÕt be highly thought of today, it was a
tradition in a German town in 1959. Boys had to learn what a tavern was. One
particular Sunday morning, I recall a black man, probably 60-65, coming in to get a
six-pack, on his way to the creek to do some fishing. He got the beer from the
cooler and walked up to the bar to pay. Some of the guys at the bar told the
bartender to not sell any beer to a Ònigger.Ó As though it were yesterday, I
see my father getting up and paying for the old man's beer and escorting him
out. When he returned, no one said a word, including my father. He never said
anything to me, or his friends, or made anything of the incident. But I got the
point.
Since I have limited space,
one more story. I was probably 6 or 7. We were living in an apartment at the
time that had a shared bathroom with another apartment, and no shower. I can
remember my father and I going down to the power plant, where they had public
showers. Those trips were a special time with my father. I donÕt remember any
special stories or lessons to go along with them, only that they stand out in
my memory as a special time, when my father and I, naked as jaybirds, enjoyed a
shower together.
Since May 10, 1966,I have
missed my father. I often wonder how things would have been between us, how our
relationship would have developed, what he would think of me? How he would have
dealt with a daughter-in-law and two grandkids? He would be 86. Anyway, sitting
here on the back deck, thinking about it, tears run down my cheek. I suppose
some would say I should get over it, but I prefer not to. Somehow those tears
keep alive the memories.
I almost died myself at age
52. Now
I realize just exactly how young he really was. My father never laid a hand on
me, never yelled at me, never called me crazy names. He taught me to be
responsible, to be respectful, and to accept others who may be different than
myself. He tried to help others when he could. I made a career out of it.
Emotions were not freely
expressed in a German community. I suppose they fancied themselves as tough. I
remember seeing my father cry twice in those 18 years, once at the death of a
friend, and another time at his father's death. I donÕt remember him saying he
loved me or I saying that I loved him. It was shown, but not talked about. I
waited too long to say, Dad, I love you. Thanks.