As a kid, I got a mixed message. At church, God was great. Everywhere else, Dad was almighty.
Dad didn't design it that way but that's how it turned out. Maybe it was inevitable, and very much OK by me, at least until I started my own family.
You see, long ago when I was entering those difficult teen years, my father was the rock, the only one, and to me a very old one.
I stood in awe of him. On weekends and in the summer, I was an extra hand on his farm, although we lived in town. He was obviously wise beyond question. My mother had died a few years earlier, my married sister was much older, and dad had thrown himself into all sorts of civic endeavors, in addition to running the farm.
So it's no surprise that we never played catch, never camped out by ourselves, never did any buddy things so commonly advocated for families today.
We never hugged. Nothing strange about that in those days. Both of us would have been embarrassed if we had. Only sissies did that. But, like everyone else among my friends' families, we were in church every Sunday.
None of the those observations capture, however, what I remember and treasure most about him. It was simple. One incident in 1946 exemplified his total confidence in me. He trusted me--to an amazing extent, I've realized in retrospect.
Here's what happened. First, understand that when I was barely into my teen years, he'd have me on the tractor plowing a field all day alone, while he was doing business in town.
So it seemed only natural to me when he told me, a 13-year-old, to do something that today seems unthinkable. I recall when my two sons were of similar age: No way would I have given them that much independence.
Consider the context. It was on a hot summer afternoon on the farm. We were preparing a pen of sheep to send to market at the Fort Worth stockyards, 150 miles away. It had to be at night, to keep the sheep from smothering. Dad's hired hand had just quit. Dad had a civic meeting in town and couldn't truck the sheep that night himself. No problem.
He voiced no complaint, no grousing over the dilemma he faced. Rather, he matter-of-factly placed the keys to his big, nearly new International truck in my hands. He gave me the papers to present to the stockyards guy when I got to Fort Worth. He said to stop a few times on the way to make sure the sheep hadn't all bunched up in the truck bed and endangered themselves. If I got sleepy, stop someplace and rest.
Just like that. My heart raced as I tried to stay just as calm as my dad had seemed. As I pulled away from the farm's loading chute just after sunset, I tried to sit big in the truck cab. I waved and he waved back.
That short 15 minutes of conversation between us still amazes me. I had no driver's license. That would come at age 14 in those days. I had driven the truck on the highway only between fields, never even to town, just a few miles away. But now to the big city itself?
It was a joyful ride, and thankfully uneventful. In those days, U.S. Highway 80 in our part of the country was mostly deserted after dark, except near big old Fort Worth.
There, I successfully backed the truck up to the commision company's chute on the first try, let the workers unload the sheep, got the receipt and then headed back towards Abilene.
On the way, nearing the top of Ranger Hill, I saw an all-night truck stop and restaurant. What the heck. I pulled into the parking lot, got out and had a cup of coffee at the counter. I felt big beyond belief.
And you know what? When I got home and parked the truck in the driveway and climbed into bed (about 3 a.m.) dad never even woke up to ask how things went. Granted, he slept very well. It must have reflected his blessed assurance.
Sadly, much later when I had started a family of my own, I had to disappoint him greatly by not following in his farming footsteps. But he soon got over it, reluctantly, and went on to enjoy many years of retirement life. As have I.
Fortunately, at a latter-day family reunion, I recounted fondly for him and the whole family that pivotal remembrance of mine. Come think of it, this one is my Father's Day gift to my own family.
Thanks for listening in.
