My father died quietly, unexpectedly, at the end of a pleasant day, 21 years ago today. He was a very intelligent man, a reader, with a sophisticated understanding of design and engineering, carpentry, mathematics, and finance. He was interested in history, especially of the Old West. As a boy he devoured Zane Grey westerns. As a man he regularly donated money to an orphanage for Indian children. For Gwen and me, family trips to the West were important experiences in our upbringing.
Capable, modest, and hard-working, he never sought the limelight. People looking for a leader sought him though, in the Army and National Guard, in the fire department, and - as I was to learn only after the internet came along - in the local Hammond organ club, which he served as president. He thought fast on his feet and possessed tremendous physical courage. I saw him walk out of a burning building after an explosion directly over his head while manning a 2-1/2 inch line. I saw him save a man from drowning - with no word, no hesitation, he leapt from the boat and saved a helpless man screaming for his life. Years later my mother said that later that day, he would not speak about it while gathered with family and friends, including the young man whose life he had saved; he did not want the attention.
In my teens and twenties I was self-absorbed and clueless in deluxe amounts. I hope that in my thirties I began to show a growing appreciation of my parents, but it is sad, if perhaps typically human, that it has been only in the years since he is gone that I have begun to truly appreciate and to understand my father's life with any claim of authority.
I am grateful for quiet, restful evenings after a hard, hot day's work in the yard, when I sat in his chair and listened to my sister and mother talk as the grandchildren played in nearby rooms. It felt as if seeing the house and the life of our family through his eyes, for a few moments. Life with Robin has given me more opportunity to try on his shoes; same as when I did that as a small child, they still are too big for me to fill.
He was a talented musician who, with our mother, imparted a love of music to his children and grandchildren. My sister and nephew play multiple instruments. My niece, nephews, and son all sang in choirs. I inherited a good ear for music, but unlike either of my parents or my sister, I am lazy, and lacked the self-discipline to make anything of it. In retribution for my lack of initiative, the Fates gave me a terrible singing voice, for good measure.
Daddy had a good sense of humor. He would enjoy the irony of how my musical tastes have broadened beyond the finely honed node of annoyance I supplied under his roof. (I can only imagine the choice words of bemused exasperation with which he would have greeted news, having suffered through the Bobby Fuller Four hit and, a generation later, the Clash's revival, that his granddaughter had Green Day's version of "I Fought the Law" on her iPod).
Thinking of him today, I recall him at the organ, and also the music he liked on the radio. The music he played was broad in scope, while his radio usually was tuned to WCMS ("where country music swings"). He had no patience with people who drank "as pastime," but he was in on honky-tonk music from the ground floor, loved a good tune, admired good picking from a musician's perspective, and I am pretty sure he was a fan of the Texas Troubadour. I wish I could share Junior Brown, the Spurs, and Roy Sludge with him. I am grateful that he shared so much great music with me.
My father died quietly, unexpectedly, at the end of a pleasant day, 21 years ago today. He was a very intelligent man, a reader, with a sophisticated understanding of design and engineering, carpentry, mathematics, and finance. He was interested in history, especially of the Old West. As a boy he devoured Zane Grey westerns. As a man he regularly donated money to an orphanage for Indian children. For Gwen and me, family trips to the West were important experiences in our upbringing.
Capable, modest, and hard-working, he never sought the limelight. People looking for a leader sought him though, in the Army and National Guard, in the fire department, and - as I was to learn only after the internet came along - in the local Hammond organ club, which he served as president. He thought fast on his feet and possessed tremendous physical courage. I saw him walk out of a burning building after an explosion directly over his head while manning a 2-1/2 inch line. I saw him save a man from drowning - with no word, no hesitation, he leapt from the boat and saved a helpless man screaming for his life. Years later my mother said that later that day, he would not speak about it while gathered with family and friends, including the young man whose life he had saved; he did not want the attention.
In my teens and twenties I was self-absorbed and clueless in deluxe amounts. I hope that in my thirties I began to show a growing appreciation of my parents, but it is sad, if perhaps typically human, that it has been only in the years since he is gone that I have begun to truly appreciate and to understand my father's life with any claim of authority.
I am grateful for quiet, restful evenings after a hard, hot day's work in the yard, when I sat in his chair and listened to my sister and mother talk as the grandchildren played in nearby rooms. It felt as if seeing the house and the life of our family through his eyes, for a few moments. Life with Robin has given me more opportunity to try on his shoes; same as when I did that as a small child, they still are too big for me to fill.
He was a talented musician who, with our mother, imparted a love of music to his children and grandchildren. My sister and nephew play multiple instruments. My niece, nephews, and son all sang in choirs. I inherited a good ear for music, but unlike either of my parents or my sister, I am lazy, and lacked the self-discipline to make anything of it. In retribution for my lack of initiative, the Fates gave me a terrible singing voice, for good measure.
Daddy had a good sense of humor. He would enjoy the irony of how my musical tastes have broadened beyond the finely honed node of annoyance I supplied under his roof. (I can only imagine the choice words of bemused exasperation with which he would have greeted news, having suffered through the Bobby Fuller Four hit and, a generation later, the Clash's revival, that his granddaughter had Green Day's version of "I Fought the Law" on her iPod).
Thinking of him today, I recall him at the organ, and also the music he liked on the radio. The music he played was broad in scope, while his radio usually was tuned to WCMS ("where country music swings"). He had no patience with people who drank "as pastime," but he was in on honky-tonk music from the ground floor, loved a good tune, admired good picking from a musician's perspective, and I am pretty sure he was a fan of the Texas Troubadour. I wish I could share Junior Brown, the Spurs, and Roy Sludge with him. I am grateful that he shared so much great music with me.