Dad

Today, October 27, is my dad's birthday. If he were still living, I think he'd be 94 years old today. It's really hard to think of him being 94 because, come this spring, he will have been gone for 20 years. I was almost 37 when he died, so he seemed fairly "old" to me then, but now, almost 20 years later, not so much. Also, my image of him is who he was then... not who he would be or might look like now.

Dad was what used to be called a "regular guy." That usually meant at least two things: 1) he wasn't famous or "high falutin'" and 2) he was down to earth... the kind of man you could trust to do the right thing, keep his word, and be... well... a regular guy. And he was certainly both of those things. He came from humble rural roots in the Depression, and he always seemed to be content to let someone else worry about "keeping up with the Jones." Oh, he bought a new car every few years, but that grew from his desire to be practical and safe rather than a need for flashy wheels. However, I do remember the time he bought a nearly new and rather psychedelic orange 75 Super Beetle and drove it home. I'm pretty sure Mom was glad when that one finally went away.

As a kid what I remember most about Dad was his quiet demeanor, his strong work ethic, and his desire to do things that made my mom happy. He used to say, sometimes to Mom's frustration when she wanted to know what he wanted for a change, that he was happy when she was happy, and I believe he truly meant it. He was never the guy who would stand out in a crowd, but I never met anyone who knew him who didn't like him. One of his joys in the 70s was sitting by a Joy Bus kid or two during church.

Apparently he had been quite an athlete when he was younger. He played basketball; I remember finding some little track medals from high school in an old case one day when I was in high school. I remember often visiting the old home town in Roosevelt when we were on vacation and hearing stories about the catch. "So, you're Dewey's boy, eh? Well, let me tell you about the catch." Apparently Dad played some semi-pro baseball and once made a Willie Mays style over-the-shoulder catch while running full out with his back to the plate to seal the win in a game. He was a Roosevelt legend after that.

By the time I came along he seldom played any sports himself, but he would often come straight from work to see me run an afternoon track or cross country meet. I do remember one time, though, when he drove by the school where a bunch of teens and adults from church were playing softball to see if I needed a ride home. He stayed around to watch, and we coaxed him to bat. Dad was not a big guy... about 5'8" and maybe 145... but he took one swing, crushing the ball and sending it deep over the heads of the left and center fielders. With no fence, that ball rolled far enough that the bases cleared as Dad jogged slowly around the base path in his work clothes and steel toed shoes, with keys and change jingling in his pocket. He never did become a regular with us at Monday night softball. I think everyone learned something about him that day... yeah, he could hit the ball, but it wasn't all that important to him to do it.

In the mid 70s Dad was struck with PLS (primary lateral sclerosis - first cousin to ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease). Slowly over several years it robbed him of his mobility, eventually leaving him wheelchair bound and needing help with most of his personal needs. Mom was his primary care giver during that time, and I doubt anyone was ever cared for as well as he. She was sitting with him that night in 1987 as they watched a Perry Mason re-run and a stroke took his life.

Here's to a regular guy... Happy Birthday, Dad!