DAD

Father’s Day is already here, and I barely survived Mother’s Day! I say that for two reasons. First and foremost, I dearly miss my mother, who left this earth 45 years ago. I would have loved to share a cup of coffee and chat with her one more time, but I know that wouldn’t be enough.

The second reason I’ve survived Mother’s Day is because of the hype surrounding it. Sometimes I receive a card—sometimes I don’t—but I always get a phone call. When my son was younger, he was more attentive. One year, he picked a bunch of dandelions and put them in a Mason jar for me. Another year, he served me breakfast in bed. I remember a cup of cold instant coffee from that breakfast, but I drank it anyway. He was so proud to dote on me; that was the best gift of all. As Father’s Day approaches, I find myself missing my dad. He left this earth 23 years ago, and it’s always a time for reflection. I have written about my dad before, but isn’t that the definition of reflection?

My father was a tall, dark, and handsome man who worked as a farmer. His favorite songs were “The Tennessee Waltz” and “Black Dirt Farmer.” Although his family believed he should pursue a career in law, he didn’t enjoy school and only attended until the 10th grade. Mom adored him. When he came in from the field or the barn, she would hug and kiss him—yuk! He was dirty and smelled bad. He would sit in a kitchen chair, and the dirt from his pant cuffs would fall onto the floor. Mom would scold him, but lovingly clean up after him.

He was somewhat religious and refused to work on Sundays, even when the sun was shining. He didn’t put much stock in the saying, “Make hay while the sun shines.” No matter what Mom said, he wouldn’t budge. He would take turns passing the collection plate at church and helped repair the church’s roof. When I was little, he would drop us kids off at Sunday School and then go home. As he aged, he began attending most Sunday services.

Both parents smoked, but Dad decided they should quit, and he did. Mom didn’t stop; she secretly continued to smoke. Dad caught her smoking one day, and she promised to quit again -but she didn’t. Mom and I would sneak off to smoke together. In later years, Dad would tell me that he could see the smoke rising from the bathroom window from the field, knowing it was Mom and me smoking cigarettes.

Dad was a gentle man, but he did have his moments. One time, when I was twelve, I sassed him, and he swatted me on my behind with the Sunday paper. And I recall one time when he pulled Baby sister’s hair. She deserved it, of course. Once, he became enraged at a cow and hit it with his fist! The cow didn’t seem to care. My mom got mad at Dad once and shouted, “I could kill you!” His response, “Why don’t you then?” That was about it.

When I think about my father, I sometimes see him as a martyr and a victim. His birthday is June 17th, which always coincides with Father’s Day. Instead of having two separate celebrations, he only received a combined celebration for his birthday and Father’s Day.

As a boy, Dad accidentally injured his index finger while trying to take a sharp knife from his brother. After that, his finger stuck out at an awkward angle and became nearly useless. This injury was just one of many unfortunate events in his life. Dad was the second of four boys; the youngest was a daughter. His father passed away at a young age, due to a heart attack, and his mother was wheelchair-bound because of severe rheumatoid arthritis. Additionally, that sister had Down syndrome. When World War II began, two of the boys went off to fight. This left Dad and his younger brother to care for Mom and their sister and manage the farm. Since the younger brother was not as capable, Dad handled these duties much of his life.

Dad and I spent a lot of time doing chores together, as if I were the son he never had. When fall arrived, it was time to put the chickens in the coop so they wouldn’t freeze during the cold Minnesota winters. How does one go about trapping chickens? At night, they roost and sleep in the trees. My dad and I would climb the trees, grab the chickens by their legs, and place them in the coop. It was a lot of fun! Who didn’t enjoy climbing trees as a kid and catching a chicken to boot? I don’t recall how many years we did this, but eventually our farm stopped raising chickens.

Milking cows was another shared activity for us. We would be in the barn, with him sitting on a three-legged stool and me sitting nearby on something or other. While he milked the cow, he would tell me to open my mouth and squirt a stream of milk straight into it! Talk about precision. Now, don’t go thinking I have a big mouth! Another cow story. One spring afternoon, Dad met me at the school bus and took me to the barn to see newly born twin calves. I will never forget that day. Sometimes the bull was in the barn at the same time. Suddenly, what I thought was a big carrot came out from under the bull. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom when we entered the house. I didn’t understand why Mom and Dad laughed so heartily at the time.

One of the frequent tasks we tackled was weeding the soybean field, and the whole family participated. I hated it. The weather was hot and humid, and the uneven ground made walking difficult. I ended up with blisters on my poor, dirty feet. Pulling up sunflowers and cockleburs required a lot of effort, and it felt like torture. Dad once hired a few strapping young boys to help with the weeding. He warned me, “Roberta, when the boys are helping, don’t bend over while pulling the weeds!” Yeah right! It was nearly impossible to pull those stubborn weeds while standing up straight!

We baled hay together. At first, I stacked the bales while Dad drove the tractor until Mom noticed what was happening. She ran out of the house, waving her dish towel to remind Dad that I was a girl! He’s supposed to stack the bales, and I’m supposed to drive the tractor. So we changed places, but that plan didn’t work out well. While I was driving the tractor, he yelled, “Stop!” So I did. I slammed on the brakes and sent Dad tumbling to the ground as several bales fell on top of him. Another time, I turned too sharply and bent the hitch connecting the tractor to the baler. Dad didn’t yell or anything; he was big and strong and straightened the hitch again with his bare hands. It’s incredible when you think about it. Another time, while raking hay, I turned the tractor too sharply again, bending every prong on the rake. Once again, he didn’t get angry. He just took the pliers and straightened each prong.

We had pigs, of course. Dad would sit by the sow as she had her piglets. Was it to comfort her? No, he didn’t want the sow to roll over on them. Those piglets were real money! One time, he cautioned me. “Roberta, if a pig starts to chase you, just clink the pliers and another tool together in your pocket.”

“Dad, I don’t have anything like that in my pocket. I don’t even have a pocket.”

“Oh, in that case, just run!”

Soybeans were an essential crop for us. One year, Dad decided that the beans needed to be fertilized before planting. He put the beans in a large wagon and poured the fertilizer on them. But how could we evenly distribute the fertilizer? Suddenly, Dad had an idea. He called on Sis and me to get into the wagon and jump up and down on the beans. (Grapes aren’t the only crop that requires a good stomp.) Our fun ended abruptly when Mom spotted us covered in fertilizer—our once-white blouses and shiny ribbons in our hair now a mess. I often wonder if that year’s soybean crop turned out any better.

I’ve shared this story about our mean bull before, but it stands out in my memory. Mom and my sisters were tasked with bringing the bull in from the pasture each day. The bull was aggressive and would chase us. We would run and duck to avoid him. The bullfights in Spain were tame compared to this! Mom was understandably angry and frustrated. Trying to manage the situation, Dad got blinders for the bull, hoping they would help. However, that resulted in an even angrier bull chasing us, making it even scarier! Mom continued to complain. Eventually, Dad decided to step in and bring the bull in from the pasture himself. That didn’t work either. The next day, he was sold for glue. (The bull, not Dad—although for a moment, it was a close call!)

Every summer, Mom and we girls canned fruit together. This was our only way to enjoy fruit during the long, cold winters. Dad’s job was to build shelves in the cellar to hold the glass Mason jars filled with fruit. Mom became concerned that the shelves weren’t sturdy enough. Dad brushed off her worries. Then it happened. One evening, while Dad was enjoying a dish of canned apricots, we suddenly heard a loud crash from the cellar! A whole season’s worth of canned fruit and broken glass spilled across the cellar’s dirt floor! Need I say more?

When we watched Alfred Hitchcock or The Twilight Zone on television late at night, we would become frightened and wake up Dad, asking him to sit in the living room with us. He did. Do you suppose he was afraid, too?

He eventually bought an aluminum fishing boat at my suggestion. The final impetus came when I mentioned that his sons-in-law would each be able to afford a fishing boat after he was gone. This knowledge also motivated him to buy a pool table, golf clubs, a golf cart, and an ice fishing house! There was a picture of him in our local paper with a 16-pound Northern Pike he speared while ice fishing.

After retiring, Dad took up serious woodworking. He built a dollhouse for his granddaughter and a volcano for his grandson. After visiting me in Germany, where he was introduced to various types of clocks, he started repairing them. He became popular in our town and was often called upon to fix clocks. He also built several clocks, including a grandfather clock that I enjoyed in my home. Becoming bored, he went into a woodworking frenzy—bowls—bowls with lids—gavels—stools—I can’t remember what else—I still have some things he made with the wood from the trees on the farm—what better gift is there?

He did all his woodworking in an old round chicken coop. It was my favorite place. When I was little, I would go there to get eggs for my mud pies. Now and then, I would hide from the cows in there. Alas, one day the coop caught on fire because Dad burned wood in there to keep warm while he was on a carving frenzy!

Not everything was perfect, and Dad and I did have our arguments. During one of those times, my baby sister offered me some advice: “Roberta, just agree with him and do what you want. He won’t even notice. That’s what I do.” She was right—it worked like a charm. I’ve used that strategy with various men in my life since then.

My dad introduced me to a four-letter game, golf, which has challenged me ever since. I don’t hold it against him, though. When he lost his classic Ping pitching wedge, I searched the Bay Area golf stores until I found a replacement and gave it to him for Father’s Day/Birthday! He was an average golfer. One of his gifts that year was a hat with the phrase “Bogey Man” on it!

He put me in my place more than once. When I told him I got promoted at work, he said, “Your sisters are also successful.” Another time he told me, “If a man says you’re pretty, Roberta, don’t believe him for a minute!”

Dancing was fun for Dad, and he taught me. As a kid, I would stand on his feet while we danced to the records we had. In later years, we danced at the VFW club, even doing the Twist that I taught him. During the last few weeks of his life, I was fortunate to be there and help him make that inevitable passage gracefully. It was an emotional eye-opener. Keep in mind, he was under large doses of morphine.

As we talked, I asked him if he wished he had more children. His response, “HELL NO!” Then he began to talk about his sex life – good grief! Now I know why Mom said she didn’t dare be on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor when he came into the house! I do recall he hid a Playboy magazine in the bathroom!

One winter, he built a snowman in our front yard. A two-lane highway ran past the farm – the main conduit to the Black Hills and Mount Rushmore, so it got a lot of traffic. Mom noticed more and more cars were stopping, pointing, and laughing. What’s going on? She went to look. It wasn’t a snowman – it was a SNOW WOMAN and a voluptuous one at that! Well, he was an alpha male after all! I won’t complain. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here!

My father, Robert, passed away surrounded by his loving family. I miss him to this day and often shed a tear or two while reminiscing. So I say once again, “Happy Father’s Day” and “Happy Birthday, Dad!”

Do you have any Father’s Day thoughts or stories? Our readers would love to hear from you and so would I!