Those Old Heroes

Last night the phone rang and it was my young nephew CJ in the far-off wilderness of Pittsburgh. He was writing a report for school about a hero and he wanted to write about his grandfather --- my father. He asked me some questions, "What did Grandpa do in World War II?" So I told him what little I knew --- most of those guys didn't like to talk about the war. I emailed him some pictures, Dad looking so handsome with his pale blue eyes in his uniform and some pictures he took of the native people in New Guinea. CJ seemed content with that. We said our goodbyes and hung up.

Then I started thinking and I called CJ back. "This isn't about World War II," I told him, "but it is something your grandpa did that I think was heroic." And I told him the story.

We lived in a town with lots of factories, a mill town to all intents and purposes, and most of the fathers who lived in our neighborhood worked in those factories. Dad, whom everyone called "Tino" because he had been handsome in the era of Rudolph Valentino and had a similar last name, was a carpenter with a small construction business of his own. He built houses and he did good work. People waited years for Dad to be available to build for them. He told me once that when he first got out of the Army he worked for half a day in one of the factories and walked out at lunch time. He said he'd never go back to one of those places again.

As will happen in factories there were unions. And as will happen with unions there were strikes. And as will happen with strikes people became desperate and worried about feeding their families. Among those who worried were Tino's neighbors, guys he had gone to high school with, played football with, served in the Army with, and who were also fathers with mortgages and mouths to feed. And so Tino made work for them --- sometimes at his own expense. He'd take on one or two as helpers, hammering and sawing and carrying loads of singles up ladders on their backs as men did back then. It wasn't a prosperous way to run a business but it helped the men through the strikes and, eventually, the big shots settled and the regular guys went back to work.

Years later one of the women in our neighborhood told me, "if it hadn't been for your father we would have lost our house that summer". And another man told me, "your father was the best man I ever knew, if it hadn't been for him my family would have starved." Those are good things for a daughter to hear about a man who usually seemed a lot less than perfect at home.

So I told all this to CJ and said, "That's pretty heroic, isn't it?"

"That's VERY heroic," he said, "I've got to go write that all down. Thanks."

No, CJ, thank YOU for letting me remember that and pass the story on.

Here in Gloucester they talk of the days of wooden ships and iron men and how those days are gone forever. But there were iron men in other parts of the country, too. My father wasn't always a very good father and, to hear my mother tell it, not a very good person but the wonderful thing abut memory is that you can remember things like how he helped our neighbors keep their house and put food on the table and remember what a good thing that was to do.

My father bought me art books and taught me to build a fire and stuff sausages and make sauerkraut from scratch. He taught me to draw and to read maps and to shoot a gun. He taught me to think for myself. One time, when I was grown and on my own I was worrying about something that had to do with business and he asked me what the problem was. I told him what I was working on and said, "everyone tells me it is fine but I'm not really sure they know enough to know if it really is fine or not." Dad smiled and said, "You've grown up well."

So, CJ, I hope you get a good grade on your paper. I'm so happy you called me because you gave me good things to think about. And, Dad........... thanks.

Thanks for reading.