It's not such a long trail after all

My dad was born a century ago. He rode a horse to school, used kerosene lamps and milked the family cow on their small plot of land in Indiana. His father, my grandfather, was born shortly after the Civil War and was a minister who covered several small communities none of which could afford a full time pastor... they were called Circuit Riders. We tend to think of history as something that happened a very long time ago but when you look closely people my age are less than three life times removed from the great war between the states. A few Civil War veterans were still alive when I was born. In generational terms my grand kids are just 5 generations removed from having Lincoln as a president (no comment).
Things have happened so fast in the last century that it's easy to lose touch with our past. I used to wonder how my dad could have lived through so much progress and remained so poor. Think about it ... the electrification of America, the rise of fossil fuels other than coal, the automobile, airplanes and telephones ... I mean you could have thrown a dart against the DOW and made a fortune! Then I get to thinking about all the progress during my lifetime ... computers, internet, faxes, e-mail, cell phones, space exploration, globalization, medical and pharma advancements etc. and how I failed to capitalize on these and I understand how it's possible to live within a forest of progress and fail to see the trees of opportunity. In addition my dad had to survive the depression smack dab in the middle of his prime years. Is it any wonder he went from being a man with with entrepreneurial desires to one who sought security over everything else?

I wrote this the day after he died:

He was a quiet man.

You never really knew what he was thinking...

all you knew for sure

was... he was thinking.

He was honest... I think...

at least I never caught him in a lie.

But then again he didn't have much to lie about...

perhaps that's the ultimate definition of honesty.

He was at once devoted to

and dominated by my mother.

He didn't care that we teased him

about being "henpecked".

He was, in a strange sort of way,

proud to belong to her.

He never said it, but I suspect

he had a strong picture of what a man should be...

at least I always wanted to believe that,

but then who knows what the silent ones really think.

Perhaps he was taciturn because

he had nothing to say? I wish I knew.

He was a good man.

He didn't know how not to be...

but then again perhaps that's the definition of goodness.

To those of us who are sometimes good

and sometimes not so good,

it's hard to believe that there are people

who can be only good or bad.

He was a so-so Dad.

I don't mean that unkindly...

most "Depression" dads were so-so...

they had other visions to deal with.

He did his best and it was good enough...

none of us are in jail and pay our taxes... reluctantly.

His passions were subtle,

as though beyond his reach.

He rarely talked about them,

but there were signs...

the old boating magazines

he kept carefully filed away...

his version of my hidden Penthouse...

sock drawer fantasies.

He told me that masturbation could cause insanity...

to look far down the road when driving...

to tithe my money and change my own oil.

Beyond that, he led by example...

work hard, play fair, give to others,

vote, donate blood, and love my mother.

The jury's still out on the masturbation bit

 but other than that, it was sound advice.

(NOTE: I have been asked twice recently if I mind having my blog forwarded... I am honored to be asked and delighted to say no I don't mind at all).