The week of February 1st was a week of snow and trips to the hospital to see Joan's dad.
Joan spent a couple of nights at the hospital alternating with her brothers and sister. It was a tough week as dad was too weak to undergo treatments that might have solved part of his physical problems. Late in the week he was released back to the assisted care facility. Mom and dad had been in a stand alone cottage where they enjoyed some self-sufficiency but returning from the hospital they were put in a room in the main building where dad could receive more intensive care. On Saturday morning around 8:15AM dad quietly passed away. Over the past couple of years dad had some congestive heart failure but in general had been in fair but declining health but he never really complained about feeling bad. In a sense the happenings of the last week transpired rather quickly and he was gone quicker than any of the family would have thought if asked a month or two ago.
The death of a parent makes you think of your own mortality and the death of my own father back in 1976 caused me to adopt Joan's dad as my own surrogate father. Both men were probably best described as kind and gentle people and shared many common traits. Both were firm in their faith and supporters of their churches. Some common names were shared - my dad's middle name was Floyd, Joan's dad's first name was Floyd and my brothers middle name was Eugene which was Joan's dad's middle name.
Growing up we never missed going to worship on Sunday and never worked on the farm on Sunday other than the normal chores that had to be done such as milking the cows. It was a rare Sunday that we did some kind of work on the farm that was deemed necessary such as getting a field of hay in the mow before expected rain on Monday. I only ever heard dad cuss one time and that was when we were moving the combine and a grain wagon from a farm that we tenant farmed in Uniontown. Dad was anxious to get to a different field to combine wheat because the weather was good and the grain was dry. I don't remember who was driving which but as we were about to pull out onto Canton Rd. whoever was second bumped the other and it broke a hydraulic line on the front of the tractor and hydraulic oil went everywhere. That pretty much ended the combining for that day as we had to park the tractor and go get parts and make repairs taking up most of the afternoon. Well it probably wasn't the first time that I heard those words but it was the first that I heard my dad say them. It was definitely an overstressed situation for dad. As much time that I spent with Joan's dad I never heard a cuss word.
Joan's dad was a veteran of World War II and received The Bronze Cross and Purple Heart. He served his country well having left his wife and daughter Joan back home. The family was fortunate that he was able to return home at the end of the war at a time when many didn't. We all consider him a hero in our eyes. Some of his letters home during the war survived and are very tender and expressed his love for his wife through his own words and those of poems of other authors that he sent.
Some of the good times that I was glad to share with Joan's dad was fishing. We made a number of trips to Wingfoot Lake some of which when the macular degeneration had taken some toll on his eyesight but even if he couldn't see the bobber very well he could still catch as many or more that me. One of the very memorable fishing trips that we have talked about many times was a day fishing in South Carolina on Lakes Moultrie and Marion. Dad, Joan's brother John, and myself had hired a guide named Tom to find some catfish to catch. Tom was kind of an "old codger" and I think that dad in particular wasn't taking well to his demanding ways in telling us how to fish. He was real fussy in where and how to put the line in, how to hold the pole, etc., etc., and keep your eye on your line and not be looking around enjoying the scenery. We had just spent about 20 minutes getting started fishing and getting our instructions from Tom when dad hooked onto the first fish of the day and it was a big one at that. Tom helped dad land a 39 pound catfish (we have always called it a 40 pound, you know how fishermen are) into the bottom of the boat. We all stood around looking at it dumbfounded as it was the probably the largest fish any of us had ever seen let alone caught. Tom started yelling at the rest of us to not pay any attention to the fish and watch our lines which was kind of hard to do with such a big fish at your feet. We knew later of course that Tom wanted us to be ready in case there was another big fish that might hit one of the other lines. We ended the day with a whole lot of catfish and of course dad won the pots for the first and largest fish.
In later discussions with Tom during breaks or over lunch we found out that he served during World War II in the Pacific islands. He was one of the guys that went onto the islands and directed fire from the big guns on the battleships offshore. He was another war hero. After we found that out we were glad to accept his instructions. On a later trip Joan's mom also went along and her presence created a whole different atmosphere and we all had a great time.
Joan's brother Scott spent a couple of nights with dad in the hospital and had some heartfeld discussions with him. Scott gave a very nice talk at dad's funeral about family times and dad's relationship with the family. Scott said that one of the lasts things that dad had told him was that he had "no regrets". What a wonderful thing to be able to say in your last days is that you did your best and have no regrets!
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