A Very Belated Father's Day Message

This past Father's Day was the thirty-first on which I have failed to send my Dad a Father's Day Card.  Of course that is because it is the thirty-first in which I have been fatherless.

I was blessed to have two wonderful parents who raised me in as traditional an American home as anyone ever had.  I had all the blessings of home, love, security, and family one could possibly wish for.  Though my father had been married before, the idea of divorce or the fear of it in our home was something I do not recall ever seriously considering a threat.  My two older brothers were from his previous marriage, and although 15 and 16 years older than me,they were simply, my brothers.  We never used terms like, "half-brother".  We were a family.  Of all the nightmarish childhood fears and insecurities one may have, I can remember only one genuine anxiety beyond the usual, "What's living in my closet or under my bed," and that was the fear of loosing one or both of my parents to death.  I was doubly blessed to be able to finish high school before I had to face that fear.

Boeing B-17 (Flying Fortress)

My father, Olen B Simpson, known to all who knew him as simply, "B", was a World War II Veteran.  Yes, I say that with great pride.  While not an armed soldier, he served in the Army Air Corp as a Master Sergeant over a team of mechanics responsible for keeping a group of B-17 (Flying Fortress) bombers in the air reigning terror down on the Axis.  I have always been fond of the fact that I am in the last of the Baby Boomers.  I fit the definition both by the fact I was born in early 1964, and my father was a WWII Vet. While he was also particularly proud of his contribution to the war effort, that experience was not what defined him as a man.

B Simpson was also not defined by the fact he had lived through the great depression and had memories of that experience.  Born in 1919, and raised in rural Mississippi, he knew what poverty was and had experienced his share as most of his generation.  His memories of the experience were quite clear often telling stories about hunting for small game to survive and being chastised by his father whose repeated instruction to "Peg 'em in the head!" so as to not ruin the meat of the squirrel, or rabbit.  Though he taught me to shoot, we never went hunting.  I would ask him why he did not hunt.  His response was always the same, "I had to hunt to survive when I was a kid, and now I don't." He had no problem killing an animal to have something to eat. One year he bought some live turkeys which he killed, dressed and prepared for Thanksgiving.  I remember him shooting some ducks at my grandfather's pond once because he got a notion to cook duck, which he had not had in years. But B did not find enjoyment in the killing of anything.

Though he was a believer and in later life a leader in his church, I would have to say that while his religion was quite real and genuine, it did not define him.  It was a great part of him, and I was thrilled to see him become a very good lay Bible scholar and a respected teacher at our church.  When he was asked to become a deacon he agreed, although he was always concerned that the stigma of his divorce; though many, many years behind him and unknown to most people; would impair his work as a deacon, or reflect badly on the church.

I suppose the over-riding thing that defined my father was probably his work ethic.  He served our community as an installer repairman for South Central Bell.  He was The Telephone Man.  As the article below from the CWA (Communications Workers of America) newsletter shows, for at least 17 years he was the only telephone repairman in the community.  He was known by his co-workers as a man who would do anything to get the job done.  I remember him coming home hot, cold, dirty, smelly, and exhausted.  It was not unusual for him to step inside the kitchen door, drop his clothes, and walk straight to the bathroom to clean up.  I remember clearly the smell of creosote, and sweat.  One of the favorite stories he would tell and often shared by his co-workers was of an occasion in which an identified case of trouble was on a pole near a railroad track.  The pole was in a low spot and high water from recent rains had created a waist high reservoir around the base of the pole.  The gathered workers could not figure out how to get to the pole to get the work done.  My father, reportedly, stripped down, carried his tools over  his head, and then climbed the pole to fix the trouble to the laughter of his co-workers.  His favorite part of the story was the part about the train passing by while he was on top of the pole doing the repair.  When I would ask him, "What did you do then?" he would laugh and say, "I kept the pole between me and the train."  Even at his funeral, one of the men he worked with took time to reminisce with me about that story.

Article from October 8, 1976 CWA newsletter.

I graduated from high school in 1982.  That same spring Dad retired from the phone company and took a part time job at the local post office as a janitor.  He had always said that the reason so many men died soon after retirement was because they quit doing anything.  He had it all figured out.  He would retire from the phone company, but would continue to work.  We had no idea that he would soon get sick that November, spend about 9 weeks in the hospital, and then die February 14, 1983.  

For many years I resented greatly those who have had the blessing of their father in their adult life.  I suppose I still do. I appreciate greatly the blessing it is to have my mother still with me.  But when I see those who don't appreciate what they have in having both parents there for their adult life I can't help but get angry.  As an 18 year old, I had only begun to make plans and set a direction for my life.  I never got to discuss the call to the ministry I was beginning to experience at that time.  I never had the chance to talk to my father about the woman I planned to marry or how much it hurt me when we divorced.  I never got to share with him the birth of my son, or the thrill and the redemption I experienced with a second chance with a new wife and new family and change of career.  I know he would be proud of all three of my boys, but of course I never got to introduce them.  He would be proud to know one who is in college working diligently on finishing his first degree and making plans for his next step to prepare for his future.  He would be proud of the other about to launch out into the Navy, starting life even as he did in the military.  He would be proud of the other, though autistic and challenged, diligent at his work at the local center and a blessing to be around.

I have, however, had to learn to accept and not resent.  I find comfort in the fact I was blessed with a good father and I had him for 18 years.  That is far much more than many people can claim.  I was blessed to have him pass on that work ethic that so defined him, and I hope I have been able at least in part to do it for my boys.  He was by no means perfect, and often frustrated me with his narrow viewpoint.  He was quite a man.  If I have been able to be half the man he was, then I know my life has been a blessing too.  

Thanks Dad.  We miss you.  I miss you.  Happy belated Father's Day.  I love you.