Nov 16, 2014
He would have been 105 today. Sometimes I tear up at remembering my dad. He wasn't easy to live with. I did not like him many times in my life. He was controlling and could be quite mean at times. Especially with cats. And with his kids. I wondered many times why Mother ever married him. He was not as nice as he could have been with her. Things always had to be his way. One time my sister asked her why she ever married Dad in the first place. She was very mad at him at the time over something that had happened. My mother put her right in her place and told her it was none of her business and she was never to bring such a subject up again.
I know where he got the meanness in his personality and it was from his father. I told him one time when we were talking that beating kids was not the way to discipline and that he could have been arrested for that now and that his father was not right in doing that with his children and then passing it on to his father. He did not like that. He said he loved and respected his parents totally and they were absolutely right in how they raised their kids. He had every respect for them that he could have. I said...."Don't you think that love and respect has to be earned?" He came back at me with a vengeance of defense for his mother and his father. So I never brought it up again.
Sometimes I think back to me raising my children. I don't think I was that great of a mother. I did some things that I would take back in a New York minute if I could. But that's the trouble. You can't take things back. If we could only have children when we know a little more about life. And to think that he still defends his father, as mean as I have heard that he was, is amazing.
I read a history that was written by my nephew a couple of weeks ago. It totally bought me to tears. My father had an older brother that died when he was two when his mother was five months pregnant with him in 1909. I'd never heard him talk very much about his brother, but I have learned that he was always very sad that he didn't have an older brother to grow up with. Twenty years later in 1929, his father died and it was decided to bring the baby that died in 1909 over to be buried with his father. My grandmother told my father who was only about 19 at the time, to go and dig up the baby in the other cemetery and bring him over to be buried with his father. I can't even fathom a mother having one of her children digging up the grave. It was before cemetery people did that for a job. And in 1909 they only buried him in a box. Nobody had money for caskets. So dad took two friends and went to the grave site. Inside, the burial box was gone and there was nothing left but a few pieces of bones. So they gathered them up and put them into another box and took it to the other cemetery to be buried. My gosh I cried the whole day when I read that.
I can only imagine what this did to him personally. It obviously bothered him his whole life. And I never knew it. I never knew what hurt him.
Sadly, we never know our parents until they are gone. Why does that have to be so.