Dad, My Rock

Just like the little old woman who couldn’t feed her large brood, Dad’s mom couldn’t provide for her many children, but, unlike the woman in the shoe, his mom knew exactly what to do. She sent him and his two brothers from Maine to Mooseheart, Illinois—a town, home and school for orphaned children of Moose members, and a place for children of those members who no longer could afford to raise their children. Dad was part of this latter group.
After graduation from Mooseheart, he met and married Veronica, and they began their journey together through the Great Depression and World War II. He enlisted in the Army, but was turned due to poor vision, classified 4-F—some called him four-eyes. Still, he forged ahead with his ingrained ethics and worked in a nearby town running a printing press.
After work, he helped around the house. He treated Mom like a queen, often cooking, even helping her tuck in the clean bed sheets. (More like the fathers of today than yesterday.) He also fixed leaky faucets and radios of neighbors for extra pocket change, and he was always available to dump the buckets of hot water into the old galvanized tub for his family’s weekly baths.
When he married Mom, she had been deserted by her previous husband and left with two young daughters. At one point, the ex-husband stole the two girls away. Dad set out hunting for them and wouldn’t quit until he found them in another state—left alone, huddled together, soiled, hungry and cold. He grabbed them up and returned them to their frantic mother.
Ten years into their marriage, I came along. Before school age, Dad took me fishing. We dug for worms in the back yard, and then walked downtown to a spot behind the library. He taught me to thread a worm on a hook just as the sun glistened on the water. After we caught enough, he cooked the fish and ate our delectable dish, just as the little town bustled to life.
Dad and I ventured into the woods as the leaves crunched under our feet, and gathered green walnuts. He used an ice pick and hammer to cut holes in an old Mason jar lid, so I could catch fireflies. He repaired the plumbing to our cast-iron, claw-footed tub by squeezing through a trap door in the bathroom’s floor.
However, when he left to fetch another tool, I came tearing through the house into the bathroom and fell straight through the gaping hole, scraping my sides from the waist to my underarms. After tending to my wounds, Dad continued to apologize afterwards for weeks.
Dad fixed appliances, painted the house and planted vegetables. His green thumb produced gorgeous irises and blazing colored tulips. He proudly added a little white picket fence around his chock-full, blooming beds.
When my school was about to hold a spring dance, I begged Dad for a new dress. He sat me down and showed me where all the money had to go and why there wasn’t enough. But later, he and Mom scrimped on meals, pulled together all their loose change, and he even slipped a little extra into my allowance. All so I could prance off to the dance in a new dress.
Dad toted an adolescent to football games, potlucks and concerts. He took turns standing in the pouring rain, so his adult daughter could receive unemployment, and he trudged out in sub-zero weather to start her stalled car. When his divorced daughter needed assistance, he fixed a broken furnace and vacuum, and then slipped her a $20 bill to feed her kids. “Don’t tell Mom,” he said.
I thought he’d taught me all he could, until I found a scrap of paper with a little poem that he’d written long before I became a twinkle in his eyes. My darling, my life, You’ve agreed to be my wife… Up until that moment, I didn’t know he shared my love of writing. He gave so much—his knowledge, patience, compassion, dignity, and good old fashioned morals. Dad was my rock—the mountain I built my life on. He will be missed forever.