October Tribute II

"Speak softly and carry a big stick, and you will go far."
-Theodore Roosevelt

If there is one quote which best describes my father, I would say it is this one, delivered by Theodore Roosevelt to the general public at the Minnesota State Fair in 1901, a brief two weeks before he would ascend to the presidency following the assassination of William McKinley. It is with absolute certainty that when my father reads this, he will laugh and crack a pecker joke, as he has been doing so for as long as I can remember. However, this is not the reason for my reference.

My father has always been the quiet member of the family. He is a private man who can be reticent of his affairs or opinions. However, when he speaks, people take notice. They listen. He is thoroughly economical with his words, but at the same time his arguments are forceful and incisive. So despite his inclination towards being slightly subdued at times, he more than makes up for it with the weight of his words. Speak softly, carry a big stick.

I have memories of living in Rancocas Woods, New Jersey, with my father, mother, and sister. We lived in a small log cabin with cartoon skunks painted on the shutters. I remember at the time thinking it was the coolest house ever. How impressed we are with things when we are 9 years old.

We lived here because my father was stationed at Ft. Dix. I remember sometimes, in the summer, he would take me to work with him. The ride to Ft. Dix was about 30 minutes and we listened to classic rock the whole time: Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Steppenwolf, Cream, Jimi Hendrix. It was these car rides and those musicians that started me off on my future musical path. When we arrived at the base, my father would joke around with his army buddies, sit down at his desk and read the paper, maybe finish the crossword. Then we would head out to the golf course, and I would caddie for him while he played a round with his colleagues. Sometimes, he would take me to an obstacle course and I would watch men rappel down wooden towers. I thought it was an exciting and thrilling job, but I knew nothing at the time of basic training or war.

It was in New Jersey when I first started playing sports. Basketball for a year, soccer for a few more, and my love at the time, little league baseball. From 4th grade until 7th grade, baseball was my life. I would play wiffleball in friend's backyards, go to the batting cages, throw rubber balls off walls for fielding practice, and when I wasn't playing I was buying baseball cards, trading baseball cards, or reading about baseball cards. And then, when it was game time, I would run my tiny 80lb frame out to second base, left field, shortstop, or whatever position I was penciled in for that day, and I would look across the diamond onto the bleachers or the side of the fence, and see my dad there cheering me on, and for a moment, I did not know of any greater feeling in the whole world.

Above all else, I am most impressed with my father for his dilligence and hardworking demeanor. He grew up on a dairy farm and was milking cows, loading hay, and delivering eggs at an age when most kids nowadays can't even be asked to clean their room without complaining. In his late teen years, he joined the Army and went to Vietnam. He returned and enrolled in university, graduating a short time later. He would retire from the Army at 45 as a major, after putting in time in Egypt, Panama, and South Korea, among other places in the United States. And instead of embracing his time off and relaxing with a beer on the local golf course, he would become bored with the idea of retirement, and go back to work.

Which leads me to the present day. My dad is currently employed as a prison guard and is undoubtedly the most intimidating guard there, regardless of age. I don't have to go anywhere near the prison to ascertain this statement. I know it is true. My close friends, the ones who have known my father for a long time, have an affectionate nickname for him: "The Crusher." They will say things to me like: "I saw the Crusher standing outside your mom's store," or "I saw the Crusher driving your car to work yesterday." And we will share a laugh, knowing that beneath my father's Charles Bronson-esque "tough guy" facade, they have nothing to worry about. Unless they disrespect him or get on his bad side. Then they don't stand a chance.

I am reminded about the story of Roosevelt, who was campaigning in Milwaukee in 1912 and was shot in the chest by an innkeeper. Roosevelt did not panic. He figured that since he was not coughing up blood he was in no immediate danger and, therefore, did not need to go to the hospital. Instead, with blood staining his shirt, he calmly announced to the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose."

For some reason this quote strikes me as something my father would say. It's probably because I have watched my father with admiration my whole life. He has always been the strong, determined, invincible leader, and no matter how many years go by, that opinion has never wavered.

Love you Dad! Happy Birthday! Have a healthy and happy 60th and may you have many more!