Never Leave it in the Inkwell

    Fathers of the 1960’s and ‘70’s—the generation after the “Greatest Generation”--had very large shoes to fill. Having grown up during and after the Depression, many were veterans of the “forgotten” war in Korea. After the war, most of these men did not have the opportunity of a college education and went to work in factories. These men became the fathers of the "Baby Boomer" generation.
    Growing up was no less difficult for my father, Stanley Harris, who, at the age of fourteen months, lost his father, Sheldon Harris, during a tragic accident. 
    According to the local paper, “Sheldon Harris, 26, of Perry, was dead today, a martyr of his own heroism in attempting to rescue Kenneth Carter, 22, of Painesville, whom he attempted to release from a high tension electric line.” (The Cleveland Press, Aug. 22, 1930). 
    My grandmother, Katherine Helen Werner Harris, was expecting their second child, my Aunt Pauline Harris Dickey at the time of Grandpa’s untimely death.
    The young widow invited her parents to move into their home in order to help run their small farm and raise her young family. Helen, as most of her family and friends called her, remarried years later after her parents had both passed away. 
    Her new husband had no patience for his young teenage stepson and kicked him out of the house, forcing him to move in with the families of friends and get a job to help earn his keep while continuing to attend school. Stanley managed to earn good grades and enjoyed learning from teachers whom he respected. Mr. McKenna, later my junior high school principal, was one of Stanley’s favorites.
    Upon graduation from high school in 1947, Dad entered the Army where his intelligence and leadership abilities opened up opportunities for quick promotions up to the rank of 1st Sergeant.
    After four years in the service, my father got hired back to the Diamond Alkali, a chemical manufacturing plant near Cleveland, making sure that his family had food on their plates and a Ford in the driveway. In this factory where many employees died an early death due to exposure to toxic chemicals, my Dad, a loyal plant man, stuck it out for 29 years until the plant shut down. 
    After completing his four years in the service, Dad fell hard for young, pretty, Mary Lou Marshall of Fairport. He met my mother in January, 1953, and they set a date to tie the knot for later that summer. Mom insisted, however, that they move the date and Dad agreed, so they were married on May 2, 1953.
    The young couple had their first child, me, nearly two years later. Our family outgrew the post-War era bungalow after the birth of my little sister Linda five years later, so we moved to a three-bedroom ranch on the other side of the tracks, literally. Dad worked more hours than most, perhaps avoiding having to deal with my mother, whose addiction issues caused a palpable strain between them. Working his regular eight-hour shift at the factory, putting in frequent overtime hours, and another four hours in the evening as a custodian at our church, he didn’t have much time to spend with us kids. Back in the ‘50s and ‘60s, however, the role of fatherhood was more traditional, with the bread-winner coming home from work too tired to devote much time to the children. 
    Yet, somehow we always knew that Dad loved us very much. Weekly trips to the library or the neighborhood ice cream store or MacDonald’s for a Friday night hamburger, back in the early days of the “Golden Arches,” was Dad’s way of demonstrating a father’s love. 
    I've always been a morning person I think because I knew that the only way I would get breakfast in the morning was if I got up with Dad. I enjoyed munching on my breakfast cereal, simply listening to the morning news while he read the paper. Sometimes we would talk about a news story, but most of the time I just enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table silently sipping my juice, watching him pack my lunch and his.
    One of the reasons my sister and I loved going to church on Sundays was knowing that our whole family could be together. Dad always made sure his kids were in Sunday School every week. Weekly worship added a consistent rhythm to our week and helped to instill a faith in God. There is no greater legacy to a child than that of the faith of our fathers...and mothers. 
    Soon after the plant shut down, Dad decided that he could no longer deal with my mother's addiction issues and filed for divorce, receiving full custody of my brother, the only one of us still left at home. Yet faith in God somehow sustained Dad and served as a testimony to me of the strength that only God could give. 
    Dad served in the Army as a Sergeant, but to hear him talk, sometimes you might think he had achieved the rank of Colonel. Not that his tales steer too terribly far from the truth—after all, during his four years, he had experience with nearly every type of artillery, driving a variety of transports, and getting into exciting predicaments while training his men.
    My son, a commissioned military officer, often gets perturbed with his Grandfather who loves steering conversations around to where he can interject an old, slightly exaggerated “war story” or two. But like I privately remind my son, "Let Grampy have his stories, Honey--he doesn't have much else." We smile as Dad proudly tools around town in his American-made car sporting a “Korean War Veteran” vanity license plate, although, as a training sergeant, his boots never left American soil. 
    Today, July 8, 2009,* Dad celebrates his eightieth birthday. Yet, despite all that he and my mother have been through, Dad still feels a sense of responsibility toward her, choosing to continue to provide for her financially what he can out of his fixed income and making frequent trips to visit with her when he feels up to it. Dad never remarried and still loves her in his own way. Like those of his generation, Dad believes responsibility to loved ones is a core American value.
    Dad has become rather cranky and belligerent in his old age. Even though he is not always a joy to be around, his health problems shrink wrapping his world around himself, I cling to six words which a friend once shared with me as she dealt with her own aging parents--"Never leave it in the inkwell."
    And so, nearly every day, I make a special point of calling him or popping in to remind him, "I love you, Dad." 
    "I love you, too, Sweetheart," he always replies. 
    Despite all of his foibles and imperfections, I wouldn't trade this Daddy whom God has given me for anyone in the world.