MEMORIAL - Democratic Underground

Snoutport

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Fri May-27-11 07:19 PM
Original message

MEMORIAL

I would like to tell you about my dad. He was an Oregon farm boy who got up early every morning to milk cows and work in the asparagus field. He was popular and handsome, captain of the State Championship Football Team--no small thing when you come from a small country town who had never won before (and wouldn't again until just a few years ago). His town was the whitest of white. Even 27 years later when I graduated from the same high school there was only one African American student and she was being raised by white Christians.

My dad's family had come to Oregon from Kansas during the dustbowl. They were good people and worked hard. But they attended a pretty right wing church. During Oregon's first anti-gay initiative led by the OCA the pastor of my grandparent's church told his congregation, "If Jesus were alive today, he would be a member of the OCA." (I pretty much came out in my small town when I wrote a letter to the paper refuting what the preacher had said). My grandmother, a very sweet woman who liked to paint and arrange flowers, and I were watching tv one day and saw a little black kid in a commercial. My grandmother said, "Oh, ni***r babies are cuter than white babies." It was the first time I'd ever heard an adult say that word.

So, if you get the picture, my dad came from a religious family in a small town that is pretty well-known for being mighty mighty religious and judgemental. They are suspicious of outsiders. They are not friendly when new people move into town. My mother has lived in this town since 1978 and she mentioned the other day, "You know, for all the years I've lived here, I've never been invited to anyone's house." That's the town that raised my father. And he was their golden boy.

But my father was something special. He liked people a whole lot. Everyone was interesting to him. He went off to college on football scholarships and was the college golden boy...until the first game of the season when he got both of his knees broken. He lost his scholarships, had to move home and his whole life changed. He joined the Air Force and for many years he trained Green Berets in survival skills. He was a man's man. Tough as hell but everybody liked him.

My mom was an air traffic controller for the US Navy in Corpus Christie. She and my dad met on the radio when he was flying into her airport. He thought she sounded cute on the radio and asked her out for a date. That was a big no-no but my mom went on the date. They really liked each other and had another date, then a third. Then they got married. Three dates and married, just like that. He didn't need to look any farther. Neither did she. They had one argument my entire childhood...and all they did was raise their voices and my mom went for a walk.

My parents were dirt poor in the early days. They would fill the car up on payday and when that ran out my dad would hitchhike the rest of the month. (To this day I will still pick up a hitch-hiking service member). They had an argument soon after the wedding, the only other argument they ever had. My mom would not give up butter for margarine, my dad wanted to save the 20 cents. Mom won. It was 1957 and that Thanksgiving they had scrimped and saved to do up a proper Thanksgiving. My dad brought his single buddies from the base. When my mom heard there were still more fellas back on base with nowhere to go, they pooled their money and my dad went and got the guys from the base and somehow they fed everybody a home cooked meal. That Christmas they did two meals so the on duty guys could have a home cooked meal. My dad went hunting and shot a goose. My mom said it was the toughest thing she ever ate and plucking it was awful but every guy on base got to eat a real Christmas dinner. Some of those men still write my mother at Christmas time. It meant that much to them.

When my dad got out of the service he bounced around a little bit and then we moved to Alaska. My dad and mom busted their butts and bought a taxi cab. Then two, then three, then more. Soon they had a whole little cab company going. 8 cars, if I recall, and probably 50 drivers.

And that is when I started to learn how different my dad was from a lot of people. It was Christmas of 1973. I think. I was 9. My mom had been busy in the evenings all year long. Crocheting afghans. Every night, knit knit knit while my dad worked on cars in the garage. On Christmas Eve my mom and I piled the car with wrapped Christmas afghans. She had made one for all of their drivers! Each driver also had a big plate of (mom's) cookies and (dad's) fudge. We drove around town dropping them off and I got to meet all of the drivers. I had met the daytime drivers before but not the night drivers. I had no idea there were so many people working for my dad!

We went to a cheap apartment building and found Dorothy's apartment. "KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK". Dorothy was tickled by the afghan. She was an ancient looking woman. Now, granted, I was 10 so anyone over 40 was ancient. But Dorothy was in her mid 70s. Quite old for the taxi cab driver business (in Anchorage, no less). We got back into the car and I asked my mom how come Dorothy was driving cab when she was so old. To me, a grandmas should be at home baking, not working. I remember clear as day my mom's response because it sounded so...heavy, "Dorothy really needed a job to eat and nobody would hire her but your dad." She didn't say any more about it but I understood that Dorothy was poor. Dorothy was one of the few women cab drivers in Anchorage. She was the oldest driver as well.

We dropped off more afghans and cookies and the response at each house was the same. Amazement that the boss had made them fudge and that his wife had baked cookies and made an crocheted them a blanket. Such personal gifts from a boss! One of the drivers was a black guy. He and my mom joked and laughed. He hugged us both. My mom told me when we drove away that he was one of the only black cab drivers in Alaska. My dad was one of the only people who hired black drivers. And house after house and apartment after apartment I saw the same thing over and over. The Cajun driver with an accent so thick you'd think you were down on a Bayou. Robbie who I think was back from Vietnam and fighting some demons-he was a hippie and by then "hippie" was practically a dirty word. The Eskimo driver who gave us raw fish. Everyone was different and interesting and had an accent or was cooking something crazy smelling and foreign. Even the plain old everyday looking white guy seemed pretty interesting.

Art's apartment was stylish. A studio but kinda fancy. When he unwrapped his afghan he grabbed my mom and just hugged her and hugged her. That Art was a chatty one. I could tell my mom really liked him. We talked for a while, Art made coffee for my mom and while that brewed he redecorated his apartment around his new afghan (carefully draped across the back of the sofa). Then there were hugs goodbye and headed back to the car. "Mom?," I remember asking, "Why does Art live alone? Why doesn't he have a wife?" And my mom said, "Some men don't want to have wives." (AHA! I thought with 10 year old glee! That's me!) Art was my dad's openly gay cab driver.

Somehow my dad, this Oregon farm boy from the most conservative parts of the country, had grown up to be something rare and beautiful. He was the guy who didn't see color. He didn't see a person's sex as a weakness. He saw potential in everybody and he gave opportunity blindly. These were the people who came in shifts to our house for the holidays and came to the dinners and barbeques my parents through for them. My dad was an amazing guy. He never talked to me about racism or race, or sexism or homophobic behavior. He never told me that everyone is created equal. He never pointed out a poor person and said they have a right to try to work for a living too. He wasn't a man big on words.

But he showed me. Again and again in many ways that I am only know figuring out. If that kind of man can come from the deepest conservative roots then we should all have faith that there is good to be found everywhere. That from the most Red of states there will be people who have fairness and respect in their hearts. And those people will make great impressions on the people they meet.

At 36 he had a string of 8 heart attacks. He was a fighter and held on for quite a few years more than the dr.s thought he would. But, they were kind of shocked he survived a day, let alone a string of bumpy years. He retired and we moved to his hometown here in Oregon. I got to go to the same high school my dad went to. His picture still hung in the main hall. He was still their golden boy. It feels good knowing that his picture is still probably hanging in the hallway though the students who wander under it don't know what an amazing guy he was.

It is almost Memorial Day. I hope you all have time to sit back and remember someone whose memory is worthy of reflection. I, personally, would like to hear your story.

Have a great weekend.