My Father-in-Law, who
was my best friend, took a serious medical down turn during the summer of 2015.
I took him to his very frequent daily hospital visits and was with him during
several hospital stays. He passed away on January 15, 2016 at the age of 89,
one day before what would have been my mother’s 91st birthday. (She
died in 1986 of a heart attack, at age 60.)
Dad
was raised in poverty in Paw Paw, West Virginia. During World War II he was
exempted from the draft because he was the youngest son at home, his older
brothers having all gone into the Army. He quit school in the 3rd
grade to work on the farm, and at the age of 18, he married my Mother –in-law
(age 17). She (to me she is Mom) did not graduate from high school. Both of
them came from large families by our standards. Dad was the youngest of ten.
Mom was one of eventually 20 siblings until after her mother’s death when her
father married a woman who had 7 children of her own.
They
are two of the most hard working, down-to-earth people I have ever known and in
so many ways they represent the hearty stock of individuals who settled this
country’s frontier in the decades preceding them. Dad was not perfect. None of
us are. But he loved me, and respected me. He was one of the very few men I
have ever trusted and I surely do miss him.
I
am writing about him because he was the kind of quiet man who embodied the
virtues of genuine hero. We do not have too many heroes today. They seem to be
passé, irrelevant or superficial clichés. Dad was no superman but he was a man
in every sense of the word. He taught himself fractions so he could read a ruler.
He read blueprints and squared footers – many of which I dug for him by hand.
He read the Bible and he believed in its teachings but he was not a “gospel
grinder.” He often said, “I might be a dumb bricklayer but there ain’t nothin’
in that book that is not true.”
His
personal beliefs were as simple as he lived. A master stone cutter, bricklayer,
and a good contractor to work for, he lived by his word. If he said he would do
something for someone, he did it. He took care of his laborers. He expected the
work to be done right or it would get torn down and done over. He taught me the
value and dignity of hard work. He treated me like his son.
He never held my
education against me. He often embarrassed me in front of people he did not
know by telling everyone he met that I wrote books and that I traveled to
Australia to give talks. Most of all he told me how much he appreciated me
doing things for him when he could not. He taught me how to take scraps and
make something work and work safely.
Why am I spending my
time writing about him? I love him and I always will. His passing took a toll
on me but I am bouncing back. I was never afraid of him. He treated me decently
and never hesitated to tell me when I did something wrong. He brought out the
best in me and I am indebted to him for all eternity for it. When I had a
terrible flashback, he and mom picked me up at the conference I was attending
and took me to their place and let me sweat through it on the couch, no
questions asked.
History is about men
and women like Mom and Dad. It’s the humble, and simple lives of human beings
like themselves which illuminate the darkness in this cold, unfeeling world.
They embody the morals and decency which so seldom gets the attention they
deserve. They remind us that all of the lying, killing, pain, and evil in this
society and any society, for that matter, cannot stamp out or destroy the light
in the darkness of the countless number of decent individuals, like themselves,
who have positively affected everyone they touched.
For me history is not
about the big names but those thousands upon thousands of quiet souls who have
slipped into anonymity. Their memories and stories, whenever possible, deserve
to be resurrected and honored. There would be no great civilizations without
them.
Thanks for listening.
More blogs will follow periodically about my new project on July 1, 1863 at
Gettysburg.
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