My Dad

Sixteen years ago today, my father passed away. I’ve been thinking about this post for a few days now, and what I want to say about my dad. Where to start? I believe I shall begin with his eyes. My daddy had the prettiest cornflower blue eyes that truly shown to perfection when he smiled. I miss those eyes.

My mom liked to tell the story of the first time she ever laid eyes on my dad. She and her best friend were coming out of Kresge’s, what we used to call the Dime Store, in downtown Ironton, and Dad was walking down the sidewalk toward them. Evidently, after they were safely out of earshot, Mom and her friend started “arguing”…as girlfriends are wont to do when it comes to boys…over who was going to get a date with him first.

Mom was eighteen and Dad was twenty-four when they eloped on Valentine’s Day in 1936. Their first child, Richard Lee, died the day after he was born. No one ever talked about it much as I was growing up. I mean, I knew I had an older brother who did not survive infancy. It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned his death came as the result of the doctor punching a hole in his skull when he used forceps to help the delivery along.

Nowadays, that would be a gift-wrapped malpractice suit. Back then, it was just a horrible accident…a terrible tragedy. I remember my brother, Leland, recounting that story as we all sat around the intensive care waiting room when Mom was in the hospital…dying. He broke down in tears and sobbed how losing the baby…we always referred to Richard as “the baby”…nearly killed her. But she and Dad survived it and ultimately settled down on a farm in rural southern Ohio where they raised four pretty good kids…I must say.

My dad was not an educated man in the traditional sense of “book learning.” He was number four out of eight children, having four sisters and three brothers. So, when his dad, Fonce…isn’t that a great name…died when Dad was thirteen, he quit school to go to work to help provide for the rest of the family. I remember when I called my Aunt Dora to tell her that Dad had died, she broke down in tears and said, “You know, he never got to have a childhood…he had to become a man at an early age.”

I guess the main thing I want to get across is that my dad…above all else…was a good man. He and Mom lived through The Great Depression, so saving was a paramount concern for them. We didn’t have a lot of frivolous things growing up, but we always had the essentials...the basics. We were by no means wealthy, but neither were we poor. We had enough.

He was a good provider. The job that Dad took when he quit school at thirteen was with a local farmer. That knowledge would serve him…and a whole lot of other people…well in later years. My daddy truly was blessed with a green thumb. He could grow anything. He built a sort of make-shift greenhouse from which he started tomato plants and pepper plants and such. People would come from far and wide to buy his plants and a similar number would come to the house to buy greens and vegetables when they were ready for harvest. Of course, Dad gave away as much as he sold to family, friends, and neighbors.

Farming was not his main job. Actually, it was his love. No, Dad worked in a foundry that made brake parts and other car parts for Ford or GM…I can’t remember which…for thirty-seven years. The plant had an open house once when I was in high school. I was a smart-mouthed, know-it-all, obnoxious teenager at the time and had absolutely no interest whatsoever in taking a tour of my dad’s workplace. Luckily for me, my mother “made” me go with her.

I can still remember walking through that incredibly loud plant with the huge, fiery furnaces pouring out big buckets of melted steel into moulds. As we were walking along, Dad spotted us and pulled us aside, so he could show us what he did. He stood before this monster of a machine that had a razor-sharp blade. He had two big bins on either side of him. As we watched, he picked up one of the parts, held it in place, and tripped the machine, so that this blade came down and sheared off the roughened edges. He inspected it, then tossed it into the other bin and picked up another one.

It was grueling, treacherous work. I found out just how treacherous it could be when Dad arrived home early from work one day, his hand bandaged when he had misjudged the machine and it nearly cut off three fingers. Let’s just say I walked away from that “Visitors Day” with a good deal more humility and appreciation and respect for my father than when I walked into that plant. I was glad my mom made me go.

As I’ve said, my dad was a good man, a good provider. He took care of his family. I was the youngest. Mom was just a few days shy of thirty-four when I was born, so that means Dad was almost forty, so a lot of the stuff I’m talking about has trickled down to me through stories told again and again at various family get-togethers. I know that he and Mom didn’t turn anyone away…at least two of Dad’s brothers and their wives lived with Mom & Dad after they wed until they could get on their feet. Different cousins have told us how there were times when they would not have had a Christmas had it not been for the gifts of food and candy and nuts and small presents that came from Uncle Ralph and Aunt Mary.

I will say that my dad had a temper…all the Waldens have a temper. It’s like a bolt of lightning…it flashes hot and fierce…then fizzles out the next instant. I realized a long time ago that I had my daddy’s temper, and I have made a concerted effort through the years to keep it under control. Sometimes I’m successful…others…not so much. Again, it was my Aunt Dora who, when we were discussing something that someone said in the heat of the moment, said, “Oh, they’re all like that. They don’t mean anything by it.”

We kids always said that Dad had one tone…grouchy. Bless his heart. Even though he came across as a gruff old bird, he really was a sweetheart. And though he may have had a stern tone when talking to us sometimes, he never abused us…verbally or physically. As a kid, I don’t ever recall being spanked…except one time…and believe me, I deserved it.

I repeat…I was a mouthy, obnoxious teenager. I had a tendency to talk back to my mom. This particular incident occurred after Christmas one year. By this time, I was the only kid left at home, and Mom wanted me to take down the Christmas tree. Now, I had every intention of doing so…I just wanted to do it on my timetable…not hers. So, Dad overheard me make some snotty comment to Mom and the next thing I know he’s stomping down the hall toward me, yelling at me, as he’s loosening his belt and whipping it out of the belt loops.

Today, whenever I tell this story, I lapse into fits of laughter. I mean, Dad had hold of me with one hand and he’s trying to spank me with the belt in the other. Now, I’m prancing and dancing around…screaming…trying to avoid being hit by the flailing strap of leather, which…to be honest…maybe landed two or three blows at the most. I learned from my brother, Tom, that the trick was to start crying immediately and Dad would stop the spanking. Unfortunately, brother Harold was the stubborn one, and he’d pucker up his face, determined not to cry.

Oh, what memories, what memories. Needless to say, the Christmas tree came down and the ornaments were stored away that afternoon.

Now, while I am the first to admit that my dad was a crusty curmudgeon, he could also be an old softy; especially where my Mom was concerned. For example, my Dad started smoking when he was thirteen years-old and did so up until about seven years before he died. He was diagnosed with emphysema when I was a junior in college, but did that persuade him to quit? No. It did, however, serve as the catalyst that encouraged my brother, Tom, to quit smoking. That’s one blessing.

For years, we kids nagged Dad to quit, but to no avail. Mom had lived with the cigarette smoke for all their married life, and she never said much about it…never complained. After she had her first heart attack in 1985, however, the smoke bothered her. We are creatures of habit, you know. Mom had her favorite chair and Dad had his, right next to Mom’s with a coffee table between them. Dad’s ashtray sat on that table and the smoke wafted up in her direction.

So, one day, Mom asked Dad if he would mind moving his ashtray to the table on his left, which he did. The next day, however, the ashtray was back on the other table because he was right handed and that was easier for him. We’re back to that “creatures of habit” thing. Anyway, Mom asked him again if he would mind moving the ashtray.

Well, the next day…he quit. Now, he didn’t tell anybody he quit, he just stopped smoking…cold turkey. I was still living in Wheelersburg at the time, which is about thirty-five miles away. I came home for a visit that weekend and later, when I was talking to Mom on the phone, I said, “Is Dad even grouchier than usual?” That is when she told me he had quit smoking. The thing is, Mom didn’t even notice it, and she lived with him. I guess Dad snapped at her one day, and she commented about it and that’s when he told her he had quit smoking five days earlier, so he was a bit on edge. I guess one is entitled to be a trifle testy when quitting a lifelong habit spontaneously…and no one has the courtesy to notice it, let alone acknowledge it.

The way my dad did it was a bit unorthodox, I must say. You see, for months afterwards, he kept a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table by his chair. He also kept a pack in his shirt pocket when he was out working in the tomato patch or the cornfield, or while he was cutting grass. When I asked him about it, he said, “Just in case I have to have one.” But he never did.

Now, folks, let me put this in perspective. That would be like me announcing that I’m going on a diet, but I’m going to carry around a five pound box of Godiva Chocolates… “just in case.” One little glitch in my day and I promise you that box of candy would be history.

I wish I had an ounce of my daddy’s willpower.

Besides his family, there were two things that Dad loved most in this world…farming and baseball; specifically the Reds. My father would put in eight hours in that hot, stifling foundry, then come home and work in the fields until sundown. No doubt about it, he could outwork all his kids put together. When he died, my brother, Leland, sat down in the rocking chair in the living room, and he reached underneath the doily on the table beside him and pulled out two things: “The Farmer's Almanac” and the Reds schedule for that year. Both of those items were safely tucked inside Dad’s breast pocket and sent off with him through eternity.

Dad had been in the hospital two months to the day when he passed away. Harold called me just before five o’clock to tell me the news. We knew it was coming…it was just a matter of when. You see, we learned from experience with Mom, and this time, Dad had a living will. So, when they wanted to cut him open and insert an intravenous line, my brothers and I said, “no.” If it would have saved his life…that was one thing…but this would have just prolonged the inevitable…the agony…the anguish.

I don’t know why I remember this, but when I started the car to drive over to the hospital that day to wait with Tom and Harold until the folks from the funeral home came to pick up Dad, the radio came on. And there was Elton John, warbling, “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me.” Just felt like mentioning that.

At the funeral, my brothers and I were sitting together on the first row, listening diligently to the minister. Now, Dad was not much of a church goer, which is to say he didn’t go at all. He just could not stomach the hypocrisy of people going to church and acting all holier than thou, then coming out and acting…well…far from churchly. Yet another way in which I take after my dad. Needless to say, the minister did not know dad…at all. He had spoken with different family members prior to the service though, so he had some personal tidbits to interject in his eulogy.

One of things he talked about was Dad’s gardening ability and how so many people knew him for that. He said he had even stopped at the vegetable stand Dad had for a while in Ironton just outside the gates and across the street from Woodland Cemetery. Then he paused for a moment as if he were uncertain of what he was about to say, then he took a breath and said, “Now, most of you who knew Ralph knew he had a tendency to be…” again there was a long pause before he ventured, “…a little bit…grouchy.”

Well, my brothers and I just HOWLED with laughter at that pronouncement. A little bit grouchy? (Had he met my father?) What an understatement. Some of the attendees thought it was disrespectful, but we didn’t. It was Dad. And it is a memory…a good memory…I will take to my grave. Besides, the minister did go on to finish his thought by saying, “But that was just Ralph’s way. You knew if he was grouchin’ at you…that he loved you.”

About the time Dad died, there was a Reba McEntire song playing on the air waves called “The Greatest Man I Never Knew.” The first time I bothered to actually listen to the words, I bawled like a baby. You see, I don’t know if it was a trait of Dad’s generation or just Dad in particular, but he wasn’t one to express his softer emotions…at least not with words.

Mom always bought the birthday cards, so you can imagine my surprise when my next birthday rolled around after Mom died and Dad actually went shopping and bought me a card. I wasn’t expecting much, perhaps some generic, silly card. But no, he had picked out this beautiful card to a “Daughter” that expressed all his feelings for me through verse that he was unable to speak aloud.

And even though he never said the words “I love you” out loud, I know that he loved me/us because of the kind of man he was, the way he led his life with integrity and honor, the values he instilled in his children and his commitment and devotion to my mom for more than fifty-five years. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

This picture appeared on the front page of "The Ironton Tribune" several years before Dad passed away. Here he is in all his glory...doing what he loved best. I haven't had a decent tomato since he died. One correction, we were from South Point, not Ironton.

I have a couple of other photos to post, one of dad as a young lad and one of his parents and three older siblings, but "Blogger" is being contrary tonight, so I'll save those for another day.

Meanwhile, here is a short video of Reba McEntire, explaining why she wrote the song. It only has a few bars of the song, but her reason for writing the song in the first place is worth the listen. I have included the lyrics following the video. Video posted on YouTube by littlemack16.



“The Greatest Man I Never Knew”

The greatest man I never knew
Lived just down the hall,
And everyday we said hello
But never touched at all.
He was in his paper,
I was in my room.
How was I to know he thought I hung the moon.

The greatest man I never knew
Came home late every night.
He never had too much to say,
Too much was on his mind.
I never really knew him,
And now it seems so sad;
Everything he gave to us took all he had.

Then the days turned into years,
And the memories to black and white.
He grew cold like an old winter wind
Blowing across my life.

The greatest words I never heard
I guess I'll never hear.
The man I thought could never die
S'been dead almost a year.
He was good at business,
But there was business left to do.
He never said he loved me…
Guess he thought I knew.