Remembering Dad

Today is the day my Dad was born 80 years ago. I've had a flood of memories about him today.

He had a difficult life, especially those first years as a depression era baby and the circumstances under which he was born and then had to live.

This first picture is from 1949. Isn't he handsome? Dad was a medic in the Air Force.

The next picture is my favorite one of my Dad and Mom. It was taken in Great Falls, Montana, circa 1964-66.

The last one is from circa 1970-72 at the top of Wilkerson Pass, Colorado, around the 4th of July. The snow was unexpected, and I had on shorts, so Dad carted me on his back to the outhouse.

Rest in peace, Daddy! I love you!

Remembering Mom

Eight years ago today my mom lost her very short battle with cancer. She died of lung cancer. It's kind of ironic to me that November is the Great American Smokeout sponsored by the American Cancer Society.

As a child, my younger brother and I would take anti-smoking pamphlets from the school nurse and stuff them under our parents' pillows. He and I were the only ones in our family who didn't develop the habit of smoking.

We went to her grave today, as we always do, and placed some red, white and blue flowers there. It was strange to see my father's date of death on the headstone now. Besides the flowers we left some personal items, as we always do. Just little things that remind us of them.

I miss her smile, her laughter, her sense of humor, her love of Snoppy, the way she played "Onward Christian Soldiers" on the piano (the way that got her booted from playing in the Salvation Army church for a month). I miss being able to just talk with her.

It is amazing to me how much I still miss them both...

Honoring Those Whose Service Preserves Our American Freedom (Left-Hand Kingdom)

Although I believe we should be thankful always for those who have chosen as their vocation serving in the military, today is a day set aside for honoring their service and sacrifice.

My family has multiple veterans in it, and one still active duty (God's peace and blessings to you, Fil, and to your lovely family). To them especially, I give my thanks and prayers for their well-being. I remember with lovingly gratitude two family veterans who have passed away since the last Veterans Day, my brother-in-law, Wesley, and my Dad.


GE Veith's blog, Cranach, has an interesting resource referenced in this post.

Here's an interesting story about the businesses that are supportive of those in the reserves and have been called up.

Hereare a couple of musical selections that are patriotic in nature, sorry I couldn't choose just one! :-)






And this last one via Michelle's blog, November 1st posting.

Great Falls, Charley Pride and my Dad

Oh man! I just found this song and Charley mentions being in Great Falls!

And, yes, I know every word of this song, too.

Charley Pride and my Dad

My dad really liked Charley Pride. When we lived in Montana, dad moonlighted as a bartender and had occasion to work in a bar that Charley Pride was singing at.

Charley would help my dad put the chairs on top of the tables and sweep and mop at the end of the evening. Dad said no one else who sang ever offered to or did help out in any way like that. But Charley, having been in the Air Force himself, knew Dad had to get home to sleep for his Air Force day job.

So, in honor of my dad, here's a Charley Pride song that my dad liked. BTW -- I know every word to this song since I heard it so much as a kid! It's a nice love song.

Dad

My father has passed away. Not unexpected since he was in the hospital the past couple of weeks fighting the delicate balance between congestive heart failure (CFH) and having a weak heart and only the partial use of one of his kidneys. Once the fluid started accumulating around his heart it became burdensome for his heart and kidneys to work extra hard to get rid of that fluid, and yet he needed to be hydrated. That, and some other health complications (like diabetes) and you just know you're going to be meeting your Creator soon.

Still, it's a shock.

Dad went into full code this morning and lacking a DNR all efforts were tried to preserve his life, to no avail.

When I was a toddler and my parents were trying to wean me from my bedtime bottle, Dad used a milk shake blender to make me milk shakes every night. He loved telling people about that. We have that 50's green blender now, it still works great! It had been used in the dispensory at the Air Force Base I was born at in Japan.

Another story that tickled Dad to tell others about he and I, was as a pre-schooler he used to bring me home a Sugar Daddy (sucker) every Friday evening. One time he forgot. I asked him where my "Sugar yours" was, and he didn't quite get what I was referring to. After some probbing on his part, he learned I was looking for my Sugar Daddy. When I got married, I gave him some Sugar Daddys, and it made him tear up and cry a little. Tears of affection that happen between a parent and child as they experience life together.

You can read more about my dad here and here.

Please pray for peace for family members and loved ones. He was the last of his generation to go.

I am relieved for Dad that he is in no more pain and able to be with his Savior.

Love ya, Dad... until we meet again.

My Dad, Part I, Hunting

Growing up I thought my dad could do anything. He was a manly man, with many manly friends. They played poker and pinnocle and something called cribbage. They ate hearty manly food whenever they did this and drank a few brewskis. They played softball, and watched most sports on the TV, but especially football, baseball and basketball.


These men also gathered at our house before going on the annual hunting expedition for a deer or antelope. This expedition was planned well in advance with herd reports and weather reports and lists of food and drink and other things (like TP -- they learned to put that on the list when it was forgotten one year). Now the list for food was well planned by my dad, because he was the head cook. And he was a great cook. These men ate well on the hunting trail.


Then, off they'd go, with rifles, food, lots of orange clothing, drinks and cards (for playing poker, etc. in the Colorado Rockies).



A week or two later, they'd return, dirty and smelly and in a variety of moods. For reasons I will never comprehend, I would rush up to my dad, even though I knew what was going to take place next. Hugging your own smelly, dirty dad is one thing. Being rubbed on your babysoft face with his stubble that felt like a prickly pear cactus was endurable because I loved him. But then, all the guys got in on the action and by the time it was done, my face was red, raw and hurtin' from being rubbed by all those guys' stubble. My nose was assaulted and my clothing smelled like theirs -- really bad body odor mixed with campfire and possibly the blood and guts of a killed animal, which were now hanging in our carport or garage by their hind legs. For a prissy, girly girl this was almost unbearable. But I loved my dad, so it was ok.


You could always tell who had gotten an animal because of their mood... those who regaled us with stories of the hunt and eventual kill. Those who hadn't gotten a deer or antelope told stories as well, but they weren't as jubilantly shared.


And then, the "process" would begin. The process whereby an animal is prepared to go to the butchers. The animals had already been gutted in the mountains before bringing the animals to our place. For this I am eternally grateful. After hanging the animals by their hind feet from the rafters, the skinning would begin. The sound of this will forever ring in my ears. It's not a natural sound. But you could at least look at the animals with their skin on. Skinned they were ugly and smelly and exposed. The sounds of breaking bones, ball and joints being seperated, ribs being cracked open... those are things you just can't dismiss easily.



To think that from that came meat our families would eat... yuck! Of course, I never was one for enjoying a very gamey meat (and I've certainly tried many in my growing up years like snake, bear, quail, duck, antelope, deer, moose among others). But, I wonder if I couldn't seperate the meat before me from the sites and sounds that so impressed my mind with its yuckiness. No matter how good a cook my dad was, some things just do not lose their gamey flavor. You can hide it, you can provide more powerful tastes to compete, but it's still there.



My dad enjoyed hunting very much. He always told me that it was because he enjoyed being out in the mountains and being part of the nature that God created for us to enjoy. I believed him, because we went camping every weekend between Memorial Day and Labor Day as a family for many years. Dad was different up there in the mountains. You could see how much he enjoyed it.



Now he's in an assisted living facility as life slowly drains from him and he no longer can enjoy the mountains in person. It's difficult to watch a virile man become so helpless. It's difficult, too, that he confuses me with my mom, whose been dead for 7 and a half years.



Still, I love him and try to remember the better times.

My Dad, Part II, Sports

My dad played semi-pro baseball when he and my mom were first married. For a time, he did it exclusively after my two older sisters were born. He played for a farm team of the (then) Philidelphia Athletics. He was a pitcher. He could certainly wing those balls around with accuracy and "heat" as they say.


Dad wanted each of his kids to play a sport. I wanted to do gymnastics, but that was prissy and he didn't think it was sporty enough. So he made me join a softball team between 7th and 8th grades. My idea of sports was watching it when I had to, and perhaps trying to cheer on those I knew who did play sports. So, I displayed my pitiful skills for the coach and was chosen for the right outfield. Practice was just something I endured to be on the team.


Our first game was on a field near the junior high school I attended. Dad was there, pacing as he watched. Mom was calmly in the stands, as was my younger brother. My first time at bat, my coach said we'd psych them out if I took a pitch or two right-handed and then switched to left-handed (which I was, but I was just as lousy either way!) It worked, for the first pitch sent to me left-handed was slow and I hit it! Dropping the bat, I overran first base and was rewarded with a ball to the back of my helmet. It knocked me to the ground mostly from the surprise of it. Suddenly, I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that this sport was going to be more dangerous than I thought. But after a few deep breaths, I was up and then took my base. But I wasn't surrendering my helmet. I wore it all around the bases that inning. The next few batters had us advance a base each and eventually I crossed home plate. (For the one thing I could do well was RUN.)


I survived eight innings because no one hit a ball my way. YEA! This might be ok, I thought. Until a ball came my way. Back, back, back I ran with my eyes forward and my mitt open, up and ready to receive the ball... until I fell into a cement ditch and broke my fall with my right hand, breaking many of the blood vessels in my knuckles. The hand began to swell immediately and my fingers were two, then three times their normal size. I couldn't bend my fingers any longer. Of course, there wasn't the kind of ice packs in those days that we are fortunate to have now. So my hand went into the cold Gatorade. Now it was sticky and sore.


It took weeks for my hand to return to normal. I felt like I had my mitt on (although I wore it on my left hand) because movement was so limited for such a long time. I still cannot make as tight a fist with my right hand as I can with my left hand ever since then.


So, after that disaster, it was my idea to give up. Clearly I wasn't talented enough to play this game. My father had other ideas. After recuperating until my hand wasn't swollen and could hold a ball, I spent a week in practice (all of which I complained at and wanted to go home early). When we played on Saturday, we had a light practice on Friday afternoon. This was such a week.


As usual, we outfielders had to catch a certain number of balls batted to us before we could go home. The first ball I caught, I had to jump up for and somehow my legs weren't in the right position and I fell on my hiney -- in the process breaking my tale bone. I cried and carried on, and wanted to go home early. But my coach was having none of that. He just told me I had to catch two more balls before I went home. I have no idea how I did that for the pain was so bad!


When I wasn't better the next morning, my Dad brought me to the hospital where an x-ray confirmed that I had indeed broken my tale bone. Of course, there is no cast for that. One must simply behave like Tim Conway's old man and move exceedingly slow. Changing from a sitting to a standing position was very painful and vice-versa too!


That was the end of my career in softball and sports pretty much. Except, I did much better in swimming as a high school student -- until I got mononucleosis. But that's a story for another day.


Now, my dad cannot watch an entire football game, or baseball game, or hockey game, or basketball game without falling asleep in his chair several times, waking occasionally and then falling back asleep. His stamina is very short, especially because of his congestive heart failure. His world is closing in upon himself and its difficult to see a parent slip away in small increments this way.


I would encourage you to pray for people you know who are on either side of this issue. As I visit my dad I see lots of other folks in similar circumstances and I know they have similar stories of one or more of their parents who were energetic, strong and engaged in life and now are awaiting death.


And even though this sports remembrance was one of showing my lack of talent, I still do like to remember the times spent with my dad doing something HE loved -- throwing the ball around and being outside in the wonderful Colorado sunshine!