Old School

Earl, my father, was born in 1938 and left this earth in 1988. Two months shy of his 50th birthday.

In truth, I was afraid of him for most of my young life. My dad was old school. Kids were to be seen and not heard, kind of thing. He wasn’t afraid to give us a good smack if we deserved it, and trust me, my brother and I deserved it. On rare occasions, my older sister too.

It wasn’t the inevitable punishment that caused my fear. My father, who spent some time in the military in the 50s, kept up with the military flat-top hair style. He wore that style of haircut his entire life, but it was just a touch longer, so he could keep his side burns. He never wore a beard or a mustache, but he had to have those side burns.

My fear of my father was his gruff, deep voice, a face that always seemed angry and the fact that he was a monster of a man. 6 foot 3 inches tall averaging 240 pounds. Trust me, it wasn’t fat. My dad was a hard worker, and as strong as an ox. To say he was intimidating is an understatement.

His life had not been easy. He grew up in the country. Working the farm. His much older brother had died in 1945. He was 18. Died a hero in World War II. Uncle Raymond, my brother’s namesake. It’s sad, but my uncle’s death inadvertently caused my father’s hardship as a boy. My grandfather continually compared my father to Uncle Raymond. He couldn’t live up to the sacrifice his older brother had made for our great nation.

School was a struggle. Ultimately, he was forced to quit in the 8th grade. Deemed unteachable by the faculty. He couldn’t read or write. He was severely dyslexic in a time where dyslexia was relatively unknown.

Regardless of his lack of education, he still enlisted in the army, served two years as a cook and was discharged honorably. It was peacetime in the late 50s. He loved the army, but didn’t want to commit to a lifetime of the military.

After his discharge from the military, he met my mother. They weren’t in love, and my mother was only seventeen. He was 23. She was living a life of hardship as well. In order to get out of her parents’ house, she agreed to marry him.

My dad was a responsible, stand-up guy, but he was a ginger, with a terrible temper. This turned into a pattern of quitting jobs and having to find new ones. This happened frequently in the early years of their marriage.

Because of his disability, he wasn’t qualified for most work. He was a laborer, a highly skilled laborer. A genius in his own right. He could literally build anything from memory. It was so very impressive.

My mother would go out with him when he needed a new job. She would fill out applications for him, and he would walk the completed papers back into the office where he was trying to gain employment. He told no one he couldn’t read unless he absolutely had to. There was a stigma about it back then. I believe there still is.

This went on for many years. During that time, they had started their family with my sister in 61, my brother in 66 and me in 67. There was never enough money, and we always rented, but we never went without.

Having children in the house sobered his hot temper. A little. He wasn’t looking for work as often, and found his way into the heating industry as a tin knocker. He was a fabulous fabricator; it was a good fit. The downside was that he was subcontracting and knew little about finances. This created massive tax debt for him and he had to work even more to pay off that bill.

He never floundered. It was hard, but his wife and children needed him to be strong. And strong he was.

On Thanksgiving, we always had a massive meal, and there were always Christmas presents under the tree. He made sure of that. It was his way of showing us he loved us, because he didn’t know how to do it emotionally.

I was 16 years old when I finally connected with my father. He had always favored my brother. He too was a ginger with a bad temper and suffered similar learning disabilities. Two peas in a pod. I, on the other hand, loved to read, draw, write and learn instruments, the intellectual child. I found out later from my mother that my varying interests in academia and the arts intimidated my father, and he didn’t know how to relate to me.

It was a Saturday morning. Our truck had broken down, and the engine needed to be rebuilt. My father was out there working away, and I stumbled over in my clumsy, gangly sixteen-year-old way and asked if I could help.

He was legitimately surprised. This was something my brother usually did with him. But my brother had recently gotten his driver’s license and was rarely home.

Dad explained to me what he was trying to do, and we spent the entire afternoon working on that truck. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with him. We did something we had never done before. We talked to each other.

During our repair, we ran into a stumbling block. The engine was completely assembled, but it wouldn’t start. Neither of us understood what we had done wrong. It was then that I got to use some of my strengths.

My dad had a Haynes manual. I know he couldn’t read, but he studied those pictures like no buddy’s business. Along with his experience with cars and car engines, and the illustrations in the book, he could do just about anything.

I discovered that the issue we were having was a timing issue, which inevitably led to the conclusion that we had installed the distributor incorrectly. It was off by 180 degrees. Once we made that correction, the truck started right up.

It was a good day. And when I got my license a few months later, and was working in a neighboring town, my dad let me drive that truck until I could get a car of my own.

Well, I drove it until I unintentionally blew it up. Broken down alongside the road, the engine wouldn’t even turn over. I thought for sure that Dad was going to be furious, disappointed in me, and that our connection would be lost again.

I was shocked when he just shrugged and asked if I had put oil in it. Of course, my answer was no. I was a book guy. Not a mechanic. I thought he had been putting oil in it. It happens to everyone eventually. The day you learn, you should never assume.

We junked the truck, and I eventually bought my first car. Don’t laugh or judge, it was a powder blue Chevy Vega. It was in my price range. Mom and Dad had another vehicle to drive, and they truly were not upset with me. Much to my relief.

Sadly, all those years working jobs no one else wanted caught up with him. He had worked for a few years at a plating company, plating screws and bolts with various metallic coatings. It was a terrible job, with mediocre pay. He was no longer working for that company, it had been shut down for health hazards, and my father was back to work as a tin knocker in the heating industry. This time collecting a paycheck. It was the best job he ever had, paying $10.31 an hour.

Cancer is a cruel beast. It took time to reveal itself. More than likely brought on by breathing in acidic vapors and chemicals during his time in the plating industry. It took an even longer time for the doctors at the VA to discover the rare leukemia that was plaguing him.

It had started in his lungs and was misdiagnosed as Aspergillosis Fungi. From there it became something else, and then again another misdiagnosis. It’s been so long now, I don’t remember how many diagnosis’ there were, but there were several. All wrong. It took the doctors at the VA nearly four years to pin it down and by then; it was too late to treat it.

He struggled with the illness, working while sick, fighting to keep a roof over our heads. To no avail, he begged his bosses for a helper. They refused, he was only in his 40s. He wasn't sick. He worked alone in those basements, installing the panning, duct work and furnaces. He never complained and he never got a helper. Until the day came that he simply couldn’t do it anymore, it had been a losing battle.

I miss my father a great deal. Looking back, I wish we could have made a connection sooner than we did. I got four wonderful years with him, though. It has been decades since I saw him last. I had one last wonderful talk with him.

That was January 1st, 1988. Each of us, my mother, sister and brother, took turns getting some alone time with him. My turn came, and I sat next to the bed. I was 20 by this time. Holding his three fingered hand. He had lost two fingers in a work accident the year I was born. We just talked. I don’t remember what he said, other than that he was proud of the man I had become.

He had no regrets and told me he always loved me. He just didn’t know how to be a dad to someone like me, and felt like he had nothing to offer. I didn’t have the words then to tell him he had already taught me so much. I was already grieving. We were all grieving. He knew, we all knew, he wasn’t coming home.

On January 2nd, 1988, the illness that had plagued him for just over four years took him away from us.

Hindsight is 20/20. There are so many things I wish I had said to him. So many things he needed to hear from me. He taught me self-respect, responsibility, how to work through hardship and how to live in the world, and not let the world live around me.

I learned all of this simply by observing. The most important things he passed on were by example. Integrity, pride. Passion for doing the right thing...

There is so much I learned from him. The list is endless. I think the most important lesson he taught me was how to take care of my family. Without his guiding actions, and the memories of my life under his roof, I would never have succeeded as a father myself.

I am very proud to be my father’s son. I am also a very proud father.