Dad and stories never told.

My dad, Alvin, grew up on “the river bottom” in a small town in western Missouri. His father was a very tall farmer and his mom was very short. There were seven boys and three girls. Some of them grew tall like the farmer, but not my dad.
Old photographs reveal ruggedly handsome young men and three comely young women.

I know little about his childhood. His father called him the little ‘pepper pot’ or the “squib.’ He was nicknamed for those firecrackers because of his hot temper and short fuse. It was apparent to me from the few things dad did say that he and my grandfather did not see eye to eye on much. Dad wanted to go to school but his dad wanted him to work the farm. Grandfather was a stern disciplinarian and very demanding. Dad was not one to shirk his duties, so when his father said “no,” he set aside his desire for education and worked on the farm. However, resentment grew in him, especially after his mother moved his sisters to a house in town so that they could attend high school.

In 1918, Dad’s brother, Tecumseh, a soldier away serving his country in World War I, died from influenza. He was five years older, and I sensed that he might have been dad’s favorite sibling. Dad was never consoled.

Angry and grieving, Dad packed up a few necessities and walked away. He kept moving on. In 1927, at the request of his mother, he returned to Missouri and farmed cabbages and other vegetables long enough to put his beautiful sister Lillian through College. Then the wanderlust called him away once more.

In 1934, he met my mama, a 19-year old itinerant worker, in a Hop Field near Independence, Oregon. Because she was engaged to another fellow dad asked, “Can I throw my hat in the ring?” That was the day he stopped traveling. They got married by a justice of the peace then spent their wedding night at the home of their employer. When they entered their ‘honeymoon’ room, a log lie neatly under the sheets in the middle of the bed. In the morning, they replaced the log just as they had found it.

Fortunately, for me they weren’t successful at birth control – I was their eighth.

Dad was 5 foot 7 inches. His size belied his strength, however, as he was all wiry sinew and muscle. He could do the work of two men, and did. Our small farm was his second full time profession. His first job, and the one that paid, was as a construction laborer. He was never afraid of any man or of any situation. He was tough.

Although he only had an 8th grade education, dad was scholarly and intelligent. I remember him sitting in his rocking chair late in the evening with his reading glasses perched near the end of his nose. Newspaper, magazines, and whatever books he could acquire would be scattered around him under an old lamp light. He would have nodded off to sleep from exhaustion by the time mom scooted me into bed.

As a small child I followed my dad around the farm wearing an old cap. He called me Pamaloogee, and other times he called me Shorty. As I grew older Dad and I did not see eye to eye on much. Perhaps I was a lot like him and the nickname “shorty” referred to my temper and the length of my fuse.

I was 25 years old when dad passed away. He was gone before I realized that I needed a relationship with him.

Now that so many years have passed, I find myself grieving again. I’m missing all the father daughter talks we never had. I am curious about all those places that he went and all the people that he met there. I wonder why he wandered, what events he witnessed, what thoughts they spawned, and what motivated him to keep moving on.

I lament for those stories, gone forever, never told.