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My father grew up on a dairy farm in Minnesota. My grandmother, Agnes, went to live with her sister Rose and brother-in-law Louis, when she was 13. She married Louis' brother Fred, when she was 16. He was 13 years older than her, he worked for Minneapolis Moline Power Implement Company, he also farmed 10 acres and maintained a dairy route (which my father took over as a teenager). My grandfather was a mean man, he ruled his family with an iron fist, he was strong as an ox, he delighted in cruelty. He once killed a family pet in front of his children and laughed. Even in acknowledging his cruelty, my father would never speak ill of him. My grandmother was the opposite, she was kind and affectionate. When Fred died, she told her children to take all of his money. She said if she couldn't touch it when he was alive, she did not want it when he was dead. She went to work in a cafeteria instead.
My father was a perfectionist and a hard worker. He went to college and got degrees in physics and engineering. He served in the Navy during WWII and married my mother when he got out. He was a devoted husband and father, he was frugal but generous, and extremely conservative. He also saw things in black and white, you were either for or against him. If you disagreed with him, you were against him. He was truthful (at least the truth as he saw it), he was loving, he was faithful. He was as good a man, as my grandfather was bad. He hired on with Proctor and Gamble right out of the Navy and worked for them until he retired.
My father taught me to be independent, he taught me to fix things, he taught me to love until it hurt (not always a good thing), he taught me to share what I was blessed with, he taught me when to speak up and when to hold my tongue. He always loved me, he always took care of me, he was proud of me. I am the baby of the family. Depending on how you look at it, I was an accident or a blessing. I was born eight years after my youngest sibling and after two miscarriages. To my father I was a blessing. I almost died when I was two, my father never forgot. I was his gift, his miracle and he treated me that way. When I was a teenager, we fought alot. Yelling, screaming, crying, I was his only child that ever raised their voice to him, I probably broke his heart. He forgave me many things, he overlooked my shortcomings. We also did many things together. We sailed, we went canoeing, we camped and hiked. I helped him fix the cars, the TV, the appliances. Sometimes it was just holding the flashlight and handing him tools. Other times it was him telling me how to do it, when my smaller hands could reach into places his couldn't. I am the parent that I am today, because of my father (both good and bad.)
My father was stubborn (something else we shared), he eventually died of prostate cancer, after battling it for 13 years. He lived 4 months longer than the doctors said he could. He lived long enough to put everything in place for my mother, his children, and say his goodbyes. The last 3 months, I was driving from Ohio to Florida every couple of weeks to see him. I watched him lose weight, become weak, and struggle to concentrate. He would not stay in bed, he made himself get up and come into the kitchen whenever he had visitors. Even the last month of my father's life, I could not imagine being without him. He had always been there, he had always been strong, he had always taken care of me. Despite my vastly different political views and my lifestyle choices, I know my father would still be very proud of me. I miss being able to call him and hear him tell me that. I miss the security of knowing I could always count on him. I miss doing things that I knew would make him happy. I miss being his little girl.
This was my father's favorite song. We sang it at his funeral, per his request.
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