June 12, 2003 3:54 P.M.

My son introducing his youngest daughter to the ocean for the first time.

An Unsung Hero

Unsung that is, except for the daughter who wrote the following beautiful journal entry a little over a year ago. I thought that since it was Father�s Day weekend, I would copy it for you to read. I have been impacted by the love and appreciation which my friend B.J. has for her father�whom she misses terribly. It is a moving and well-worth-reading tribute to �her Hero�. I asked for permission to share it with you. Please take the time to read it. You will be glad you did.

2002-03-28 - 3:38 p.m.

�Everybody has a hero. My hero is my Dad. They just didn�t come any better than that guy.

I�m an only child because that�s the way my father wanted it, and he and Mom waited until they were financially able to afford me before I entered the world. That way he felt he could give me everything I wanted. When I was young, before I tripped and fell into the black hole of adolescence, he was my best friend. He was my �bestest Dad;� I was his �Willie.�

At Christmas the tree was piled with toys we could enjoy together. Neat stuff. Walkie Talkies, an HO Train, baseball bats and gloves, and a small outboard boat he made with the specially ordered tiny Evinrude motor which was an exact replica of Doodlebug, his full-sized boat and motor (that toy sits in my bookcase today). We played hours of ping pong on the table he gave me for a birthday, and I drove thousands of miles in the bright red peddle car, a gift from another birthday.

Mom always piled the gifts on too, but I didn�t much care for Raggedy Anns or crinolines or skirts or Mary Janes or lacy bedspreads or miniature doll houses with six rooms of tiny furniture. But I ran the entire ten blocks home from kindergarten to play with my dog in the six by eight playhouse Dad built for us under the big elm in the backyard.

He was an early bird, and some of his favorite times were at the downtown Bakery where he ate fresh, warm bearclaws and drank coffee before work. On Saturdays and Sundays I would tag along, taking my coffee with a healthy dollop of milk. Much to Mom�s dismay, I was his scruffy downtown sidekick, dressed in cuffed jeans, cowboy shirt, denim jacket and cowboy boots. All the frilly dresses, some painstakingly sewn, but most store bought, hung ignored in my closet.

On Friday Nights, when Mom usually worked until nine at J.C. Penney�s, we would bang around in the kitchen to make a hamburger and potato chip dinner then arrange our picnic on two heavy Army blankets in front of the old black and white TV so we could bet our weekly nickels on the Gillette Friday Night Fights. I always seemed to win.

And the old wreck of a Jeep he brought home so we could scout Indians was the greatest. Some evenings when we returned from chasing Cherokees, Dad and Mom and I would build a small fire and roast hot dogs, continuing our adventure under the stars. In winter, when the pond froze solid, we would ice skate and roast marshmallows and drink hot chocolate under the crystal clear sky.

A pipe-fitter by trade, he was a master wood craftsman and collector of antiques, and he spent long hours in his �tinker shop.� He unhurriedly built my first rocking horse and bedroom set, grandfather clocks and mantle clocks, wall shelves, other furniture and bird feeders. Too careful to allow me full run of the shop, he nevertheless cut boards and I whacked my thumbs to build birdhouses at my end of the work table. Many years later, he remodeled my first home and helped me furnish it with coveted oak and walnut furniture and brass light fixtures.

Our steadfast friendship endured the first years of my adolescence. Vacations were planned and talked about months in advance. At Disneyland we rode all the rides we could cram into a day. We lurched about Tijuana on mules, and scaled our first real mountain in Colorado. A history lesson was our gift at Gettysburg, and he hovered protectively in D.C., an even meaner city then. Boating and loafing through the hillbilly attractions at the Lake of the Ozarks kept us both amused on hot summer days.

Dad remained faithful through my later selfish rebellion. He watched, at first in quiet horror, as I smoked my first cigarette, then sullenly told me of his disappointment. He slumped off to his woodworking shop when he smelled the first beer on my breath, and I further shattered his heart the day I told him I hated him. I had only seen him cry one time, the day we buried Harriet, and I didn�t see him cry that day either, but I know he probably did in the privacy of his saws and hammers and lathes.

He camouflaged his injury when I brought the high school senior home and announced he was the only man in my life I would ever love. Though taciturn, Dad sat through dinners with the boy, and even allowed him to accompany us on trips. One spring Sunday afternoon the three of us worked in his wood shop on a surfboard we could pull behind the boy�s ski boat.

When I moved from his home, to live in a squalid campus apartment, he called frequently and invited me home for weekend get-togethers. He would become silent when I declined, but always remained dedicated and continued to call and offer invitations.

Several years later, when the high school boy and I, both college seniors, came home in the predawn to announce our engagement, he shuffled into the living room, eyes glazed with sleep, and stood gaping at us. When Mom told him he might want to go put his pants on, he glanced down at his Jockey shorts and ran, red-faced, from the room.

When the young man and I later made a mess of things, Dad was there a half-dozen times over the next years to pack and unpack the U-Haul as I roamed about the Midwest in search of a landing spot.

I spent most of my first 16 years at his side, as his best friend, and he as mine. During my caustic years, when I unashamedly took advantage of him, I still maintained an underground love for the man. He set his jaw and endured. As the years passed, he staunchly shouldered my nonsense, and I waded through the junk and evolved once again proud to call him Dad. I was once again able to see him with the guiltless eyes of a child�s devotion.

Physically and emotionally he was a black and white straight arrow. Standing six two and never weighing more than one hundred and seventy, he didn�t bring attention to himself with fancy garb or overt displays of behavior. I mostly remember blue jeans, a heavy cotton, navy work shirt and J.C. Penney work boots, unless he was going with Mom and I on an outing to dinner, school function or party at a friend�s house Then he�d dress in his favorite plaid shirt, navy dress slacks and wingtips. On cool nights he�d wear a plaid flannel shirt and top it with a tan cardigan sweater. On cold nights he�d add his modest stone-colored parka. The only suit I remember, discounting the subtle navy pinstripe I bought to bury him in, was the new black one purchased for my high school graduation, which he also wore with a new shirt and striped tie four years later when I completed college.

He was a shy, unassuming man, who never allowed his emotions to run unchecked and who was openly embarrassed by the untamed passions of others. Though gravel-voiced, he spoke quietly, more a listener than a talker. In his dry-humored way, he said he let Mom do the talking, she was always much better at it, anyway. His shy nature made him appear remote, but inside the tall, lanky body resided a gentle, generous heart, and even though he was not a demonstrative man, he was caring and bursting with love for his small family.

When, a few years ago, he died unexpectedly, I refused to believe I�d lost my one true friend. A part of my life shut down, and I blocked out the past: our times in the wood shop, cold winter evenings on the pond ice skating, mornings at the Bakery, our Friday nights at the fights. All the very special things he unselfishly had done for me. For several months I felt betrayed and cheated that this man could be taken away from me, and I lashed out in anger at the cruelty of life. I wandered through the days swallowed up in self-pity. Eventually, as the months passed into years, the pain dulled, and I was able to draw on my memories and appreciate and again enjoy the brief years I had with him.

Today I am able to see him as clearly as the days when we were bumping along in the damned Jeep that never got us home on time, or when Mom scolded us for bringing home another dog or when he worked long hours building shelves and organizing my garage. I still wear his old flannel shirts and chuckle at the memory of his raspy voice on the phone calling me �Willie.� He left me with a life-long treasure of memories of a patient, loving and bighearted fellow, and I have the ripened hindsight of knowing I was more fortunate than most.�

Didn�t that bless you? A great tribute. Here is a little thought to close with.

�Grandchildren are the reward that God gives us for becoming old. If we had known what a joy they are, we would have had them first.�

Text � copyright 2003 - 2008 The Homespun Philosopher

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