My father passed away, ten days before my birthday, last summer. He had been fine only a month earlier, but something happened that took him down. I last spoke with him a the week before, but his voice, and his ability to talk, were not the usual; he strained to say words, and couldn’t express more than simple thoughts. I knew something was dreadfully wrong, and left soon after for my folks’ home. We took him to the hospital, finally, but the doctors said it was too late. The disease had progressed too far, and we could only take him home and wait for the end.
Donald LeRoy Wood was born in a small town in Oklahoma, one that no longer can be found. The circumstances of his birth were unique; he was born at home, alone with his mother, while his dad was gone to bring the midwife. Later the family made an exodus from the dustbowl region exactly like the scene of the Joads leaving, in The Grapes of Wrath, in a near-new Studebaker pick-up. He worked in the mines, as a young man, and gypsied around the west, only 17. Later he became a heavy equipment operator, able to grade the ground under his blade to a tenth of an inch, in the dark. He started and quit several dozen jobs, only to move on to another. He lived the life Hank Williams sang of, until he gave up working on construction jobs. A friend of his died from complications of sitting atop an earthmover for too many years, and Dad gave it up. He quit smoking, around the same time.
I came of age in a time when it was common for children to be rebellious; it was a time of “generation gaps,” when thousands “tuned in, turned on and dropped out.” In addition, VietNam was driving a wedge between the old guard and the new, between parents, who later regretted having to send off their sons only to get them home in a box, and their children, who had to go. In time, the two groups would find common ground, but the drug scene had taken over in the meantime, and kept that divide an uncross able barrier for many. I didn’t need either of these to keep me from being able to communicate with my father, unfortunately. He was unable to express his emotions, good or bad, other than anger, like many men of the time, but he also was unable to accept my having an opinion of my own, until many, many years later, and even then, only on “safe” topics.
It’s taken me all these months to be able to assess my feelings for, and say goodbye, to him. Those feelings are bound up in much unresolved business, topics that will never be settled, emotions left unspoken, and character flaws that will take time to work out of my system. He certainly always affected everyone around him, if not always in a good way. He was a red-headed Irishman, boisterous and blustery, especially in his youth. However, somewhere along the line, life changed him; he became quieter, often morose, and frequently angry at real and imagined slights. All my life, people looked up to him, yet I never experienced the side of him that drew this respect from others. Instead, I got the side that told me what a disappointment I was, how my ideas and opinions were of no interest or merit. I imagine many sons feel as if their fathers do not treat them right, but mine made a habit of that, until I had children of my own, and he began to warm up afterward.
He had been in the Navy, during World War 2, and I had asked him several times about his experiences, but all he would ever tell were the anecdotes about liberties, stolen trolley cars and juke boxes. Never anything personal, or about his actual experiences in combat. My mother told me of him having been tapped for a top secret mission, put on an island in the Philippines, with a radio, a radar set and a knife, but no rifle, to track Japanese shipping in the period just before the invasion to retake the islands. The story begs for telling, along, on an island with Japanese patrols, and no rifle, transmitting in code, while trying to stay out of sight and keep safe. The story has gone to his grave, with him.
The memories I do have are not pretty, sadly, and too often repeat themselves, only the time or place changing. I miss him, but I have not yet mourned him. I wish things had been different, but There is no point in wishing, and nothing comes of it, anyway. He lived his life the way he wanted, even if he didn’t get what he wanted out of it. He alone is responsible for the direction and results. I was just a bit player, in his drama, one who walked off the stage several times, and never looked back. He spent just two months short of 85 years on this Earth; I hope he was satisfied with the way things played out, but I will always wonder.
