Part Two
The Beloved People
Dear ol' Dad
My father was a tall man. Indeed, he was much taller than the six foot height his driver license and Army Air Corp discharge papers proclaimed. His spirit—his being—was at least six-foot-six, making him seem a very tall man.
Born in the Cherokee Strip in the newly settled prairies of Oklahoma in July 1916 the eleventh of twelve children, Dad was raised in southern Missouri as a poor farm boy. Paradoxically, he somehow obtained a pretty fair education, including learning to type, which laid the foundation for the man he was to become. He read incessantly, studied hard and obtained a high school diploma when such goals were difficult to achieve.
The Depression strained and tried the large family. But the youngest son never complained, was never hungry, and was always quite content. That is, until two years after high school—the wanderlust came over him. In 1935 the hopeful young man joined three of his brothers to pursue prosperity in the West. They drove from Missouri to Washington in a very tired Model A truck. The only work they could find, however, was day labor—picking crops.
Perhaps it was cutting the broccoli or more like the rhubarb that spurred my father to join the Civil Conservation Corps in 1937.There he learned a trade that would serve to make his living—masonry work. But first, I must speak of rhubarb.
Imagine standing in a field of many acres, filled to bursting with mature rhubarb. The colors must have been magnificent—bright reddish pink, streaked with white, darkening to deep maroon roots topped with huge kelly green leaves, ruffled and swaying in the breeze. The smells—oh the smells must have been amazing. Rich, organic soils, moist from frequent rains—fresh, clean air, and the eye-watering, tangy to outright sour odors of the rhubarb. The foreman told the workers they could keep whatever they wanted each day, as long as the sacks were filled and quota satisfied.
The brothers prepared rhubarb in any and every way imaginable—and likely some not so palatable. But times were tough, and one did not turn down free food nor could one waste food. So, they ate it.
My father must have told my mother this story early in their courtship or marriage, because I did not taste rhubarb until I was some thirty-seven years old and well after my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. My aunt, the youngest of the twelve siblings, by then in her seventies, prepared a cobbler of strawberries and rhubarb. I ventured a bowl and found it to be deliciously sweet and sour. Daddy asked me to get him a bowl of the cobbler. Mom nearly fell off the picnic bench and stared at my father in shock.
"You told me you had so much rhubarb before we met that you were sick of it," she stated accusingly.
"I may have said that, mama, but I never said I didn't like it! Katie-bug, get me a bowl of that cobbler, please," he said with a crooked grin and flash of blue eyes.
For over fifty years my mother avoided anything with rhubarb and for fifty years, my dad would have liked to have had some. We laughed and laughed and learned a lesson.
Dad was a quiet man with a booming voice. His bass tones could scare little children to run from the room, but his sweet nature soon had them drawing near. Reading and working the daily crossword puzzle in the Dallas Morning News were very important parts of his day most all of his days on Earth. One of his greatest crossword triumphs was the three letter word answer for the clue "chip breaker." Matter-of-fact, he loved Nacho Flavored Doritos and Queso—a cheese dip. That was the answer to "chip breaker"—"dip."
After picking crops in the Northwest United States and building who knows how many rock and brick structures with the CCC, came World War II. Dad was twenty-four in 1941 when he joined the Army Air Corps. The Air Force was not yet a separate branch of the armed forces. He was among the first and oldest volunteers so was earmarked for the Pacific.
One fine day, an officer of some sort walked up to a line of fresh recruits awaiting their orders. This officer asked if any man in the line knew how to type. My father spoke up with the proper respectful reply, and his fate was sealed. The Army immediately gave him the rank of Master Sergeant—thus he avoided combat. Instead, my Dad fought the battles of supplying the essential wartime necessities to the soldiers and sailors in the Pacific Theatre.
Logistics, it was called. Upon reflection, I believe this may have been where my father's intellect was tested, developed, and his desire for knowledge expanded by experiencing a vast array of circumstances far beyond the farms and fields of Missouri. He also found the love of his life in Carlsbad, New Mexico. My mother was a WAC. My father was smitten by the dark-haired beauty from West Virginia. He married her before shipping out to Guam in 1944.
A great lover of music, he sang beautifully. Believe it or not, we arranged for him to sing at his own funeral. A solo, taped some years before, was played to a collective gasp in the church. Many people shed a tear upon hearing that voice for the last time. Choir director and song leader, he taught many a choir member how to sing. Also, he was an avid bowler—bowling in men's league for years and in the senior league until the ripe old age of eighty-four. I learned bowling methodology in our living room—with no bowling ball in sight. The steps and release timing are the same whether in a bowling lane or beside the sofa. It worked—I am a pretty fair bowler.
But back to Dad's desire for knowledge. This man read extensively and studied all types of religious works. A pretty fair mathematician and a lover of words and thoughts, my father taught many people many different lessons. Had his youth been different, he could have been a teacher—though, arguably, he was that anyway.
At the funeral I learned the vast and almost unfathomable extent of my father's influence upon people. Many, many people told how his example helped shape their lives. He was loved and respected. My dear ol' Dad was indeed a big man—in many more respects than in mere physical height.
Patrick
Any child of Patrick's parents would be intelligent, yes—but also quite a clown. An incredible gift, much anticipated and longed for, Patrick was born into—and out of—boundless love. This miracle baby grew each day in body and spirit and was cherished beyond all imagination.
He was a bright-eyed boy, who, even at the age of one, seemed both wise and mischievous. As he learned to walk, a distinctive personality became very apparent. A gentle nature shined; yet, a strong will was obvious. An affectionate child with an emotional depth unusual for one so young, he also had a hint of his mother's red hair. He won hearts all over Colorado.
Now that I think of it, "bright" might be just the way to describe this extraordinary child. Eyes, intellect, and spirit—one could easily imagine his aura of bright, white light. No, more accurately I must call it opalescent—a pearly luminescence with tints of brilliantly varied colors. Was he angelic? Maybe yes—maybe no. But a babe such as he is pure in spirit—perhaps too pure.
Even before birth Patrick faced challenges. The pregnancy very nearly miscarried after only three months, but through prayers and spirit the baby clung to life. The birth was six weeks premature, causing the little boy's motor skills to develop slowly. Just as he began to function as a normal one-year old, something went wrong. After seeing many doctors and going through various therapies, a specialist discovered Patrick's problem—a tumor on his brain stem. An amazingly talented surgeon removed as much of the tumor as possible, but the cancer was heinously intertwined with the cranial nerves and impossible to completely remove.
Recovery was difficult. The nerve damage took his voice, and he couldn't swallow, but Patrick was able to use his arms and legs again after a few weeks. Just imagine—a baby boy just beginning to walk, losing that wonderful feeling of independence—indeed losing most of his physical feelings. His parents did everything imaginable for the boy and gave him all their love. By this time, the little family was living at the Ronald McDonald house in Denver. Chemo treatment after chemo treatment didn't seem to faze the invincible Patrick. When he was able to talk again, (a surprise to the doctors—they didn't know Patrick!) he
would point at a well-loved Italian restaurant as they drove past—cheerfully demanding "RED! RED!!" He loved their breadsticks. The parents laughed, and, yes, stopped to get some of the bread for their delightful son.
Patrick's will came to the surface while voicing his opinion on a certain nurse who occasionally attended him. When this nurse came into the hospital room, Patrick would thrust his index finger in her direction, announcing the command—"OUT!" Not surprisingly, Mama didn't care for that particular nurse either, so she never scolded the boy for that behavior. In this world of ours, we all know there are good people; there are bad people; and there are those in-between. To this kid, anyone in a category other than "good" needed to get "out" of his sight.
Craving privacy, the family moved from the Denver Ronald McDonald House into an apartment. This change presented the family with priceless time together and delightful memories of Patrick. Infatuated with playing "peek-a-boo," Dad in the shower was "fair game." Patrick would sneak into the bathroom to shove the shower curtain away. He would excitedly yell "peek-a-boo," laughing uncontrollably while letting the water hit his face.
Mama's prominent memory of Patrick is just that—laughing. The doctors said "don't coddle or cater to him—treat him like an average child." Patrick's parents should have asked those doctors how one should treat an extraordinary child. Late one night, after being coaxed to lie down in a playpen by his parents' bed, he wasn't ready to sleep. A short time after the lights were out, Patrick called out softly to his mama, giggling. Not receiving a quick response caused the boy to laugh-yell at his daddy. Mama and daddy were now struggling to stifle their own laugher. Suddenly, this little clown spoke as loudly and seriously as his weakened voice could to discover if anyone was paying attention. "Knock, knock?" Mama and daddy could not resist. Laughing together, the lights came on and they played "peek-a-boo" deep into the night. This little rascal would move and rearrange anything within his reach and laugh at any efforts to undo his work. At times he would play and laugh so hard, he would become breathless. Some would say a terminally ill child gasping for air isn't a good thing, but his comical laughing was supremely "good."
Truth is, little Patrick simply didn't know he was sick. This was his life—he knew no different. A very cold Thanksgiving night brought the culmination of his illness to take dominion over the family. All the love, the dreadful chemo treatments, nor the modern hospitals could save this precious little boy. Early one even colder morning in January, mama curled up in the crib with her son and held him for the last time.
This wonderful child's time on this Earth was unexpectedly significant. I never knew Patrick personally. Yet, I could feel him, while looking at a photograph in his parents' home. The influence such a young life can have on countless other lives is exponential.
Lessons of long-suffering patience and tolerance could be learned from simply gazing into his eyes. The knowledge that one must live each moment to the fullest—to love and be loved unconditionally—was easily obtained by observing Patrick with his parents.
The struggle with cancer and the horrific experience tested his mama and daddy's strength of character—even their marriage. It is a testament to his life that they remain happily married twenty-three years after his death. No other child could—nor would—take his place. This little boy was far from "average." Patrick has his own place—within the hearts of those his young life touched.
Dennis
Dennis was a happy, shy boy. Introverted, yes, but that is not surprising for a boy in a house with four sisters. He loved to work with his dad and had a fascination for tools of any kind. Again, no wonder he went with dad so much—to get away from all the females. Yet, he was fiercely protective of them, especially the younger sister who had just come to junior high in sixth grade where he was in eighth.
He was a notorious sleepyhead. Mom would keep a spray bottle of water in the refrigerator to use on days when Dennis was particularly reticent to get out of bed. But, if mom left him to sleep in, he invariably was upset having missed going to work with dad or some other activity. Dennis' mom forewarned the church camp counselor of this potential problem. His solution was carefully placing a folded sheet with the edges hanging off on the bottom bunk where Dennis would sleep. If the boy did not respond to the call of Reveille the next morning, the counselor would grasp the edges of that folded sheet and yank, causing Dennis to tumble out of the bunk and onto the concrete floor. He always took the bottom bunk due to a slight fear of heights. Thus, through this course of action, he was awakened and not hurt in any way.
At school he was an enthusiastic clarinet player in the junior high band. But being a teenager, he could never keep up with his reeds. Having a strong music influence from growing up in a church that loved a good sing-song session helped him have an understanding of how music worked. In fact, the one show he insisted watching on TV was Ed Sullivan. He loved to watch the popular singers and bands of the time. Plus, he could practice his Ed Sullivan impersonation. It was on that show he first saw Elvis and perfected the signature King sneer. That show also featured The Beatles with their wild hair, and Dennis immediately resisted getting the flattop haircut he had endured for most of his years. Even the Rolling Stones on Ed Sullivan influenced him, resulting in a variant of an English accent. He was so intent—nobody had the heart to say the accent was terrible.
Kids at school thought of him as a sweet guy. In those days, that meant you were one of the good people. His friends thought of him as a good friend. Dennis was one of the middle class, as was I. There were the popular kids, then there were us regular kids—those who were not yet self-confident—who tended to be shy and quiet. We were the majority making the minority of impact.
During summer, Dennis' mom, bless her heart, would take groups of us kids from church to fun places. Most of our parents could not participate due to work or homebound duties. I remember a trip to the local amusement park, Six Flags over Texas. We split up into smaller groups and rode rides and ate Pink Things and Nutty Buddy ice cream until lunchtime came when we had to meet up with the main group. Six Flags had (and still has) water rides and man-made streams of water flowing throughout the park. Such a stream was in the picnic area where we all gathered for a lunch of fried chicken and iced tea. The water in all the streams and features was "Ty-D-Bol Man" blue. We took off our track shoes and waded for fun. There was a kind of little waterfall where one could stand and let the water run across one's feet. The air temperature had to be close to 100 degrees, so the cool water felt great on our toes. Then, one of the boys splashed the blue water toward Dennis and only then did we consider the staining possibility of such colored water. Poor Dennis had to face his mom with a blue polka-dotted white T-shirt and blue feet. Truth was everyone who had waded in that water came out with bluish feet. It was so funny nobody got in trouble. We put our track shoes back on and ran back into the park to ride the Sombrero and Spindletop. However, Dennis had a problem on the Spindletop that caused me to never ride that particular attraction. This was a large cylindrical tube with an inner and outer wall resembling something like an angel food cake pan. The cylinder would spin faster and faster until the patrons were pressed against the outer wall, unable to resist the extreme centrifugal force. Then the bottom of the pan would drop away and many screams of terror could be heard. It was not unusual for someone to lose his lunch on this ride, and unfortunately that day it was Dennis. I swear, after that, proverbial wild horses couldn't get me on that ride. Instead, a calm and cool float through the Spelunker Cave was much easier on the stomach.
Of course, at 9:45 A.M. on Sunday mornings we were all seated in the Youth Department for Sunday school. We would always sing two songs from the Baptist Hymnal. We were lucky to have a pianist—one of the girls' moms played for us. Without fail—every single week—after the first song Dennis would ask that we sing "Up From The Grave." Why he loved that song so we didn't understand. It was usually done only a couple times a year in big church—and always on
Easter. Sunday after Sunday it was the same request, but always made in one of his impersonations. How could we deny a request from John Wayne or Edward G. Robinson? So, every other week we sang that song, making Dennis a happy fellow.
During Christmas vacation in 1969, Dennis was helping his dad on a job. Dad was a master welder and was working on a commercial building. Dennis loved to play "go-fer" for his father, fetching welding rods and clamps, running up and down the ladder so his dad wouldn't have to. The framework was nearly complete for the top of the building. Dennis climbed the ladder with a tool for his dad, and, in an effort to overcome that fear of heights for a few seconds, he bravely stood on one of the metal beams. The next moment the dad looked around for his son—but he wasn't there. Panic rising, the father dropped what he was doing and looked down. Twenty feet below, his son lay in an unnatural position and very still. The frantic man hastily slid down the ladder, running to the boy at the same time other workers arrived. There was no movement—Dennis wasn't breathing. Dad knelt by his son's side and wept uncontrollably.
Being only 13 at the time and since they had the funeral on Christmas Day, I was not required to attend. I just couldn't. My folks went, of course, but I hid at home. How could it be possible such a normal, sweet boy was suddenly gone? It was incomprehensible that he would not be in Sunday school asking to sing his song. We could not help leaving his seat open in Junior Choir. There was one flattop haircut missing from the back row in church. His sisters, one younger than me and one older, were in shock for weeks. Dennis' mom kept his room just as it was for years after the tragedy. His was a death unlike anything kids our age had experienced. Schoolmates were stunned. In an unprecedented action, the eighth grade class dedicated the 1969-1970 annual to his memory. When looking through that book, I gaze at a full page picture on page eight in that softcover volume where a freckled face boy named Dennis looks out at me, a sweet guy, a good friend, and most of all—my friend.