The Final Check

We've been doing some house cleaning lately, taking advantage of the mild winter weather and going through lots of boxes and areas that don't normally get much attention, hidden away down in the basement.

A couple of those boxes contained records from my father, who left us four years ago. Tax returns, legal papers of every sort, some photos, work-related keepsakes...those things that can form the outline for one's life experiences. I also found a number of boxes containing unused bank checks, originally to be used to pay assorted expenses and fund those activities Dad enjoyed.

Going through those things was a rather grim task. So many things that we feel have all-important value to the living, take on a much different meaning after death. I felt as though I was closing a final chapter by disposing of those things, and it brought a great sadness to my heart. How could I possibly destroy all those things that had such importance for so long?

Due to the sensitive nature of those items, most had to be shredded or burned to insure no one could use them for illegal purposes. Thankfully, seeing how I felt, my wife offered to start a campfire in the back yard and destroy the items, everything except the one item she held back and presented to me...Dad's last printed check, still in its shiny shipping box.

That one was sent—slowly and reluctantly—through our paper shredder, in what was quite probably my last duty as the executor of his estate.

A Special Day to Remember

Dad would have celebrated his 93rd birthday today.

Yeah, I miss the guy...lots sometimes. Of course, he could be a real sonamagun now and then; I always chalked that up to his tough father, a tough upbringing in those Kentucky hills, having fought in a very tough war and having to be tough in his position as a Plant Manager.

In his retirement years, though, he softened up quite a bit. Age can do that; there's nothing left to prove because "been there...did that" and still around to tell the story. Until his later years, I only saw tears in his eyes on two occasions:  his mother's funeral and my mother's funeral. Mom's do that to their boys.

I seldom indulge in a Boilermaker, but tonight is an exception. It'll be Happy Birthday Dad, a shot of Black Velvet whiskey and a gulp of beer to chase it down.

Rest in peace, Dad, and give my best to those two special ladies, please.

The Red Picnic Table

My Mom was a wonderful lady and I love and miss her dearly. She's been gone for close to 30 years now, but the memories and the things learned at her knee will be with me forever.

Now, understand that my Dad was a stern and stubborn individual at times. A trait he picked up from his father, honed by his time in the U.S. Army as a First Sergeant, and polished as a plant manager for a large corporation. However, when Mom set her mind on something one may as well lift their hands in surrender—and that included Dad.

Our duplex unit in Kramer Homes had a kitchen/dining area that must have been all of 12' x 12'...pretty darn small, especially by today's average home standards. When I was in my early teens, Mom decided she wanted a genuine wooden picnic table as our dining table. I have no idea where this idea came from, but once Mom set her mind to something a speeding locomotive had no chance of going against her.

Oh, she and Dad discussed the table and I can still recall him saying (rather emphatically) "I will NOT put a picnic table in this house!" Well, guess what? The table was sitting in that kitchen within 24 hours! Mom picked it up and got it home strapped somehow in the trunk of her car. Then she had me and a couple friends carry it into the house (Dad was right; HE didn't have to put it into the house!).

Shortly thereafter, Mom painted the table a bright red and you know what? It looked pretty doggone Better Homes and Gardens-ish sitting there in our kitchen! I'm not sure that Dad would agree with that assessment, but he knew when to give up and give in.

Final Round

My Dad loved playing the game of golf. He enjoyed the game as far back as I can remember.

Those memories include the time my friend, Dana, and I took a couple of Dad's clubs out into the field in front of our home in Kramer Homes and proceeded to swing at dandelions in full seed. It was pretty cool to hit the seed head directly and have hundreds of seeds "poof" into the air. Well, it was cool until Dana and I swung at the same dandelion...

It was amazing to see how far the head of Dad's favorite driver flew as the shafts of our clubs connected! That was one of the first and most fear-filled "oh shit!" moments in my young life. Then, to only make matters worse, I simply placed the broken club back in his golf bag, perhaps hoping one of my sisters would miraculously get blamed for it...nope, didn't happen.

Note to Grandkids:  its much, much better to admit 

to the crime immediately, 

rather than attempting to cover it up. 

Dad's golf clubs never looked better than they did that summer as yours truly meticulously cleaned and polished them after each round Dad played—usually every Saturday morning all summer long. Lesson learned!!!


Fast-forward to February 2003. During one of our winter escapes to Englewood, Florida to visit Dad and his wife, Beulah, I encouraged Dad to join me in a round of golf at one of the local courses. It took much prodding—"my hip is bothering me again" and "I haven't golfed in three years"—but Dad finally relented and we headed to Myakka Pines Golf Club, just a few miles out in the country from Englewood.

We rented a golf cart and were placed with a couple of nice fellows from Ohio to complete the foursome for our nine-hole round.

Ready for the first hole. 

Dad tried to drive from the first tee, but experienced some pain in his hip. From then on, he would hit any short, approach shots and do most of the putting, while leaving the longer shots to me. I noticed it was difficult for him to retrieve the ball from the hole on the greens, so I made sure to stand close-by to grab each one for him. I told the guys playing with us of Dad's limitations and they were totally understanding of the situation.

I have no earthly idea what kind of score we shot that day...that wasn't the point and held no importance for us. We had a terrific time, Dad really enjoyed himself and we teamed with a couple of patient, understanding guys. As we sat at the "Nineteenth Hole" enjoying a cold one, Dad said, "well, that's the last time I'll try that; I'm just too old". As things worked out, it was indeed his last outing.

I'm both proud and honored to have been with him for the final round of the game he loved so very much.

Dad, Meet Your Grandpa

Towards the end of my first journey into our family history, in late 1996, I was very fortunate to have the opportunity to take my Dad to visit—for the first time in his life—the grave of his paternal Grandfather in rural Knott County, Kentucky. Dad was born in 1918, while his Grandfather passed away in 1898, so obviously he never knew him. John Elliot Griffe (Griffith) died at the young age of 37 years and was buried on a rural hillside, as was the custom in those days.

During my genealogical search, I was extremely lucky to meet a local gentleman, Mack Holliday, who had been "mapping" local cemeteries as part of his own genealogical work. Mack diligently scoured the hills of Knott County and one day gave me the exciting news that he'd found my Great-Grandfather's grave-site. The tombstone was in a small family plot, halfway up a hill, above a coal mine tipple, just outside of the tiny town of Mousie, Kentucky.

John Elliot Griffe tombstone. 

These stones were obviously carved by hand and this one had withstood nearly 100 years of wear quite well. It was a matter of great pride and much joy for me to be able, with Mack's abundant assistance, to in effect introduce my Dad to his Grandfather, a man he had never met.

Life Casual

I'm at work as I write this. It's early morning, only one other employee here so far. Still, here I sit wearing jeans and a pullover sweater-thingy with a camo design! Talk about "grunge casual" dress!

My how times have changed. These days, folks seldom "dress" like they did in years gone by. Today, whether at an upscale restaurant or in church on Sunday morning...casual rules. It wasn't always that way in the world. I'm not sure what my mother, her sister, and her brother-in-law were doing or where they were headed when the photo, below, was taken, but those folks are dressed!

l - r:  my Aunt Mary, Uncle John and Mom, probably in the early 1940s. 

I cannot remember the last time I wore a necktie. I cannot remember when I last wore a sport coat, much less a suit. There was a time, back in the late 1970s that I wore a tie to work every day...every single day! So this begs the question:  were those "the good old days"?

This photo of Mom and Dad could have been taken after someone's funeral, or on Easter Sunday, or on their way to someone's wedding, but I doubt it. I'll bet this was just a beautiful Sunday morning after attending church.

Dad and Mom standing outside my bedroom window
at our place in Kramer Homes. I'd guess 1958 or so. 

Once in a great while, it can be fun to get all dressed up and do something special. Of course, then you're wondering if your tie is straight, if your cuffs are showing below the sleeves of your jacket just so, or if the shine is still on those shoes.

But for me, especially at this point in my life, I'm very content with a dress code of Life Casual.

February 10th

Yesterday, a friend and work associate lost his father.

Yesterday...February 10th. 

My mother passed away February 10, 1983.

My father passed away February 10, 2008—25 years to the day after we lost Mom.

I don't claim to be intelligent enough to understand what all this means; strange coincidences to be sure. I am smart enough to know that I'll pay very close attention to that date if I'm suffering from a serious illness.

Mom, Dad and Peter...rest in peace.

Never Felt Better

One of the many things I love about my Kentucky heritage is the abundance of such wonderful, flavorful, sometimes comical but always meaningful phrases. When spoken with that special accent, comments like Uncle Edgil's oft-uttered phrase, "this area is so poor, even the crows carry a lunch when they fly over," can be both comical and painfully true.

There are many others, but I was recently reminded of a reply my father often used when asked, "how are you, Greene?", he quite often responded,

I've never felt better, needed less or expected more. 

I often wondered if that phrase was due to his humble upbringing in a poor, rural Appalachian coal town, his job working at the Elk Horn Coal Company Store (Tennessee Ernie Ford was right*) and how he was able to move away to quasi-affluent living in Detroit and suburbs. I should have asked him when I had the chance.

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*Mr Ford's popular song, Sixteen Tons, included the refrain I owe my soul to the Company Store. The miners were usually paid in "scrip", that could only be used to purchase items at the Company Store, thereby trapping those folks in that hard, dangerous life. (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrip)

Sixteen Tons

Some people say a man is made outta mud
A poor man's made outta muscle and blood

Muscle and blood and skin and bones

A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong

You load sixteen tons, what do you get

Another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go

I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine

I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine

I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal

And the straw boss said "Well, a-bless my soul"

You load sixteen tons, what do you get

Another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go

I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one mornin', it was drizzlin' rain

Fightin' and trouble are my middle name

I was raised in the canebrake by an ol' mama lion

Cain't no-a high-toned woman make me walk the line

You load sixteen tons, what do you get

Another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go

I owe my soul to the company store

If you see me comin', better step aside

A lotta men didn't, a lotta men died

One fist of iron, the other of steel

If the right one don't a-get you

Then the left one will

You load sixteen tons, what do you get

Another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go

I owe my soul to the company store