I read Tim Russert's book, "Big Russ and Me," some time ago. His new book, "Wisdom of our Fathers," contains letters from sons and daughters sent to Russert in response to his first book. Having missed the deadline, I thought I would add my own letter, a bit late.
Big Orval and Me: My father died two weeks before I graduated from high school, in 1966. He was 46. A sudden heart attack. At the time, forty-six seemed pretty old to an eighteen year old. I've 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, held the record for the 100 yard dash for some 20 years, went into the service during WWII for 4 years, got out alive, married when he hit U.S. soil,in Virginia Beach, and had one child not long after, me. He went into trade school on the GI bill and became a plumber, eventually becoming president of the local plumbers and pipefitters union, was commander of the local Legion post, and served on the city council. 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 at the time 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 didn't want to tell me he had died until I got there. "I'm sorry, dad died. It was quick, they couldn't save him. He didn't suffer." Hard words for her to say, and for an 18 year old to hear.
Eighteen years is not a long time to have with your father. Still, he taught me some things that remain with me to this day. One of his things was respecting those older than yourself. A 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, and there he was talking to this couple. He was apologizing, not just for me for cutting them off, but for himself as well, for obviously failing to instill in me the proper respect for those older than myself. He was sorry for the inconsideration, as though it were both of us who had bolted in front of them. I was probably all of 9 or 10 at the time. He told them, and me, that he hoped that would never happen again. It hasn't.
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 wouldn't be highly thought of today, it was a tradition in a German town in 1959. Boys had to learn what a tavern was all about. One particular Sunday morning, I recall a black man, probably 60-65, coming in to get a six-pack, probably on his way to the creek to do a little fishing. He got the beer from the cooler, and walked up to the bar to pay. Some of the guys sitting at the bar told the bartender not to sell beer to no "nigger". 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 anyone else that I know of. He never made anything of the incident, but I got the message.
A last memory that I'll relate had to do with my father and I going to the town power plant, where there were public showers. The apartment we were living in at the time didn't have showers, so we went kind of as a treat. I was probably 6 or 7. I remember those trips as being a special time with my father. I don't remember any special stories to go along with the trips, only that they stand out in my mind as a special time, when me 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 me 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. That helped me understand just exactly how young he really was when he died. My father never laid a hand on me, never yelled at me, never called me crazy names. He taught me to be responsible, respectful, decent, 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 the other at his fathers funeral. I don't remember him saying he loved me or I saying that I loved him. It was shown, but not talked about. I waited to long to say, Dad, I love you. Thanks.
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