My Father

We sat looking over our menus, searching for the most appealing entree to order for lunch.  I looked over at my father.  His once dark brown hair is now thinner and nearly white, and his soft brown eyes reflect the wisdom and integrity of his soul.  He does not look quite as big and strong as in younger years, but he is far from frail.  His smile is sweet and at times a little ornery.  He sometimes wears his hearing aid that mom strongly encouraged him to buy, all the time insisting that it doesn't make a difference.

My dad and mom married over 50 years ago and he loves her dearly.  Some evenings they sit at home in the office face-booking, playing games or checking emails.  Inevitably Dad will start playing his polka music, he especially delights in listening to "The John Deere Polka."

He is a spiritual man who loves The Lord.  He is kind and generous.  When I visit him and Mom, I never go home empty handed.  He says, "take this home and use it." Or, "I got these on sale, take them home and give some to your kids and grand kids."  Dad enjoys a good meal.  Travel has always been a part of his job, and he looks forward to dining at his favorite restaurants while on the road.  At home he often dabbles in the culinary arts.  We are all quite fond of his beer bread, chili, and muffins.  He is also talented in woodworking and gardening, and has blessed his family with gifts of vegetables, birdhouses, squirrel feeders, benches and chairs.

The father of five children, he was smart, sometimes strict, and a good provider.  We had a nice home, plenty to eat, toys and clothes, and all that we needed.  His children brought him joy, and at times, frustration and heartache.  He was always there for us.  He is still there for us.  He is my rock.

We ordered lunch, and as we dined together we talked and Dad told a joke or two.  I thought about his life.
His great grandparents had migrated to the United States from Czechoslovakia, and settled in a farming community near Deweese, Nebraska.  I knew that my dad was born to a single unwed mother in 1937, and that he never knew his father. Pretty scandalous stuff for that era.  My dad, Joe, lived with his mom and his grandparents in Hastings.  His mother's sister, Chris, better known as Gracie, lived and worked on the family farm with her husband who was also named Joe.

At the tender age of 8 he lost his mother.  She died of bone cancer.  His grandparents and his aunt and uncle all petitioned for custody of little Joe.  The case went to court and the judge asked the young boy who he wanted to live with.  What an enormous difficult decision for an eight year old child to make.  The determination was made, and he moved to the farm with Joe and Gracie.  Maybe that is when they started calling him Junior.

I had seen pictures of my dad as a young boy.  I remembered some photos with him dressed in little sailor suits.  Others portrayed images of a typical childhood, with toys, bikes and kittens.  Most of the photos were from birthdays.  Dad and his mom, or Dad and Gracie standing outside in front of a tree, holding a birthday cake.  No elaborate parties on the farm, I guess.
 
Gracie did not have any children of her own so I imagine my dad worked pretty hard as a kid.  Probably gathered eggs, gardened, dressed a few hens, slopped pigs, plowed fields and harvested crops.  Dad has worked hard his whole life, and even though he is semi retired now, he is always doing some kind of work.

I remember when I was a child my dad was "always" making us work.  We had to clean the garage, pull weeds in the yard, pick up the dog poos, and do "general clean ups."  Although I thought I had it tough as a kid, I am thankful that dad made us work.  My brother and sisters and I are all hard working individuals today.  Okay, I admit, I still hate pulling weeds and my garage is kind of a mess, but I'll get it done, soon. Love you Pops!