My Dad: The Poet

My dad, in the 1930’s, was a healthy, vigorous farmer in Northern California. He had inherited 30 acres of land from his father and had planted it in various crops, wheat, melons, sunflowers, etc. He had a wife, two boys and two girls when I came along in 1932. In World War I, he had not been drafted as he had had one boy and two girls and was producing crops essential to the war effort.

When the Great Depression came along, we were in pretty good shape as we could grow our own food and we could barter some of it for other products. One neighbor had cows and another had pigs and we had a good meal every day. Our dog was fed bread dipped in bacon grease. He almost lost the farm because he couldn’t come up with the money for loans for farming equipment, seeds and other items essential for farming. He wrote a letter to President Franklin Roosevelt explaining his financial condition and I remember the day he got a telegram from the president extending the Federal Land Bank loan for another six months. By hard work and saving every penny, he was able to meet his payments. I have been a longtime Democrat because of that incident even though most of my other relatives are Republican..

In the early 1930’s, he started having aches in his arms and legs but shook them off because he was ojerwise, in good shape for a 50 year old man. However, they got worse and he finally decided to go the hospital in San Francisco for a checkup. We, my mom, my dad and I, spent two months there while he went to the University of California Medical School in San Francisco. They tried gold shots, physical therapy and several other treatments. We had an apartment just a block from Golden Gate Park and I could go to the children’s playground almost every day. One day, a bully chased me home and from then on, my mother came with me.

When we got home, he decided to lease out his property as it was too physically exhausting. He had thought about becoming a real estate and insurance man and, with the help of some friends in that line, set up his business. He knew a lot about that area and was soon doing well in both categories. Some of his soil engineering classes, when he was at Stanford, helped. He knew where the best soils were in the local area for growing row crops, orchards, etc. and could show them to their best advantage to a prospective buyer. I would go with the possible buyer as he wasn’t able to get out.

His physical condition got worse and he had a feeling it might be arthritis. This was difficult for him to take. He had been a track star at Stanford and in 1908 was the Pacific Coast Conference Champion runner in the 880 yard and 2 mile races. By 1938 or so, he was almost totally paralyzed and blindness was coming along. Doctors he consulted with said that possibly the blindness had something to do with being paralyzed.

Friends and neighbors would come to visit and they would sit by his bed and often I could hear him laughing at someone’s jokes and telling some of his own. A lot of his stories were about the time he spent at Stanford. There were stories of the rivalry between Stanford and University of California in Berkeley. He was there during the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake. He told me that he was on the third floor of a dormitory when it hit and the building almost collapsed. He spent the whole night hanging outside the windows until he could be rescued.

My father never lost his sense of humor considering the pain he was in almost constantly. He wrote the following poem around 1936 and it gives an insight to the man who was my father in 1954.
My hair is white and I’m almost blind
The days of my youth are far behind
My neck’s so stiff, can’t turn my head
Can’t hear half that is being said.
My legs are wobbly, can hardly walk
But glory be, I still can talk
And this the message I want you to get
I’m still kicking - I hain’t dead yet.

My joints are stiff - won’t move in their sockets
And nary a dime is left in my pockets
So maybe you think I’m a total wreck
To tell the truth, I look like heck
But still I have lots of fun
My heart with joy is over run.

I’ve lots of friends so kind and sweet
And many more I never meet
Oh, this wonderful world of ours
Shade and sunshine and beautiful flowers
So you take it from me, you bet
I’m glad I’m living - I hain’t dead yet.

I’ve corns on my feet and ingrown nails
And do they hurt - here language fails
To tell all my troubles would take too long
If I tried, you would sure give me the gong
I go to church and Sunday school too,
For I live the story that’s ever so new
And when I reach the end of the row
I hope to go to my Heavenly home, I’ll go
And when I leave this house of clay
If you listen closely, I’m apt to say
Well, folks, I’ve left you, but don’t forget
I’ve just passed on - I hain’t dead!

He died in 1954, one year after I returned from the Korean War. I would sit by his bed and he would ask me about a lot of the things I saw when I was stationed on Okinawa and later, when I went to Japan for specialized training. I would try to make a “word picture” to help him visualize the places I had been including Tokyo and it’s garish “Ginza” area and the Imperial Palace. When I was sent to the supply specialist school at the former Japanese Naval Academy on Eta Jima island in the Inland Sea, I had an opportunity to visit Hiroshima twice by ferry. There was still evidence of where the atom bomb exploded, but also of the postwar rebuilding.

His indomitable spirit makes me and my family every proud of him and my mother who was beside him every step of the way.