Dad

A Belated Story for Veteran’s Day…

My dad grew up in a poor Norwegian family in the 1930s in Janesville, Wisconsin. The only Christmas present he ever remembered getting was a pair of shoes. His father worked as an electrician, often taking his lunch break standing atop a telephone pole. His mother, a very independent redhead, was known around town as the only woman who drove a motorcycle. My dad would often cringe when he brought a friend home to hang out; his mother would introduce herself and then ask what his friend’s sign was. She would then announce his horoscope as my dad would look for the quickest exit.

He was always the hard worker, the straight shooter, the reliable one, the sibling that shoveled snow off the driveway every winter morning, yet somehow his mother took to calling him “my son of whom I am not proud” when he did anything that didn’t jibe with her.

Though his family rarely attended the Lutheran church, my dad sang in the choir, known for his “golden” voice before he hit puberty and everything changed.

He was 5’5″ and 110 pounds until his senior year in high school, when he finally gained a little bit of bulk. His dream was to be a football player – he knew he was too small for that – and after graduation he spent his days working in the local auto plant, his father having recently died of a massive heart attack. My dad figured life would continue as it had always been, and days turned to years.

Then out of the blue, a buddy of his asked if he would drive him over to the community college to sign up for some classes. They hopped in my dad’s car on a snowy morning and drove over to the campus. As they sat looking at the schedule of classes and the majors offered, my dad had a realization: ‘If this guy can go to college, why can’t I?’ My dad had always done well in school; money was the looming limitation.

As he pored over the lists in front of them, the words “Geologist” and “Petroleum Engineer” looked back at him and he knew then and there what he wanted to be.

There weren’t a whole lot of options for figuring out how to cover the costs of college, but there was one – the G.I. Bill. In exchange for four years of military service, a person was promised governmental funding for an education.

My dad signed up for the Army. A nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy and a sharp-witted student, he did well. A little too well. In math class, he began to realize that he understood the concepts better than his instructor did. He didn’t say anything until one day when some formulas were taught improperly. The answers the class was getting weren’t correct, unbeknownst to the instructor.

My dad vexed over what to do. Correct a superior or let the whole class continue to be misguided? Not one to silence himself when a wrong needs to be righted, one day he finally decided to raise his hand and point out the issue.

His superior fumed. He ignored what was said and continued using his incorrect process, and each time he did, my dad raised his hand and explained why the answer was wrong and how to correct it. More angry that he thought he was right than humiliated that he was doing the math incorrectly, the instructor spoke harshly to my dad. My dad grew ever more nervous, knowing he could be punished for questioning a man of much higher rank. But to what degree could the punishment entail?

Time passed, and the unknown result of my dad’s “indiscretion” ate at him. Had it ultimately been overlooked or was there some form of discipline coming?

The answer came one day during a pinning ceremony signalling a raising of rank. The superior doing the pinning that day was the math instructor. As he went down the line, my dad’s nerves were frying in suspense.

One by one, the instructor pinned each man until he came to my dad. He stood facing him, still and solid. He looked at my dad with a fiercely serious expression. He held his position, without moving for what seemed to be a few eternal moments, then turned and stood in front of the next man. No pin had been attached; no new title had been announced. My dad had been passed over. He was devastated.

While keeping a straight face and a posture of dignity, my dad tumbled into terrible thoughts. Should he really have kept quiet when things were wrong? Had he given up his only hope to make it out of the auto plant? To use his talents? To acquire new skills? Was this the end of his dream of being something more?

When the instructor reached the end of the line, he bookended it with his body and stood still at attention. Everyone was quiet. It was the longest pause in my dad’s life.

The instructor then stepped out of formation, marched sternly back down the row, stopped in front of my dad, turned to face him icily, and pinned his uniform. He marched back to his place at the end of the line, and a world of hope returned to my dad’s life.

My dad was sent to Belgium to practice being a tank commander. Groups of four men were each assigned a tank and given a starting position. Over the course of a week, each tank was to follow a particular route out in the rural, open country, and return to where they had started, having successfully accomplished several tasks. Each man in a tank would have a 24-hour period in which to “be” the commander, then all of the positions would switch. It was a test in leadership, task management, delegating, quick thinking on the job, and teamwork.

Right from the start, my dad knew there would be trouble. One of the four guys assigned to his tank was a lazy, rebellious man named Ray S. I’ll keep things anonymous, but his full name is well known in our family’s oral traditions. Ray didn’t want to be there, didn’t care about doing the job, and didn’t care how his lackadaisical attitude might affect their overall performance and the hard-won reputations of the other three.

Always prepared, well-read, and the kind of guy that others can count on, my dad did his best during his 24-hour period as commander. It wasn’t easy to motivate Ray or keep him on each task, and it wasn’t easy to overlook his cynical retorts. But it went alright.

When Ray’s turn came, they all cringed. Teamwork is a funny thing. If everyone wants to work well together, it’s great. But one weak link in the chain, and everyone else has to either overcompensate or pay for the ensuing mess.

It went poorly, as expected, but no one knew just how bad it was about to get. Night fell and the others went to sleep when their tasks were completed. It was Ray’s turn to stay up and make sure the hours were used appropriately as they continued on in their course, the various tasks ticked off the list as their tank rumbled heavily through the darkness.

They all awoke early the next morning to a realization that didn’t seem possible. In Ray’s disinterested carelessness, he had neglected to do the necessary steps to acquire fuel along the way. The thunderous tank had rolled to a quiet stop. It had completely run out of gas.

Picture a massive tank sitting in the middle of a Belgian field far from anyone or anything, far from any military outpost, far from gas; the only movement being serene waves of tall grass blowing in the wind in all directions.

I imagine there was a lot of yelling that morning. Probably some expletives too. Not just for the fact that they would have to radio their superiors and ask for help, but also because their military lives were on the line.

Again, my dad wondered if he would be removed from the Army, even though his own performance was solid. Would the selfish disregard of another man determine the trajectory of three other men’s lives that day?

Thankfully, it didn’t. Thankfully, all it amounted to was a funny story passed down through the years in our family’s living room. Thankfully, my dad was neither punished for Ray’s lack of teamwork that day, nor did he ever have to fight in a war.

I don’t know what happened to Ray S., but after my dad’s four years in the Army, he had earned the right to attend college. He received his degree in Petroleum Engineering with a Geology option from the University of Wisconsin. He went to work with Shell Oil in Louisiana and met my mom at the apartment complex where they both lived on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. She was a nurse at Charity Hospital, and she took care of him one evening when my dad’s roommate told her that my dad was sick. She brought him some aspirin and orange juice, and several months later they were married in the famous St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter. My mom was 24 and he was 30. They had four children, moved to Dallas, Texas, and had me 11 years later.

My dad retired early and my parents and I moved to a little storybook town on the Central Coast of California called Cambria. I grew up listening to all of my dad’s stories and memories since he always had time to tell them, as he sat in his rocking chair plotting graphs on stock charts. He had spent his life drawing geological maps of where his company, DeGolyer and MacNaughton, should drill for oil. Plotting stock graphs became his next favorite way to spend time.

He was a rock of a man – honest, intelligent, reliable, consistent, and kind – raising us all while continually sending money back to his siblings in Wisconsin who were never quite able to get themselves out of semi-impoverished conditions. He supported his bipolar mother in nursing homes until she passed, finding new places for her when she was kicked out for playing cards all night or being rowdy. Her son of whom she wasn’t proud had managed to be the white sheep of the family; the glue; the foundation, really.

My parents gave me away in marriage 13 days before my 30th birthday, and my dad died of congestive heart failure when I was 31. I inherited his blow dryer and a tie, and memories of one of the best dads anyone could have ever had. (He lost all of my parents’ money in the stock market when I was in college.)

My mom still wakes up every day to greet him aloud and tell him she loves him.

I love you, too, Dad. May the stories of your life live on through me, my father of whom I am immensely proud.