Township Supervisor. Police officer. U.S. Army drill sergeant. Business owner.
But he's been an electrician first and foremost.
Learning this trade in the Army, my dad always had an aptitude for science and mathematics, having excelled at both while in high school. He received his first car at age 14, because it would take him two years to get it repaired and ready by the time he got his driver's license. That tradition was passed to me in kind.
He also built the house he's been in for the past 33 years. By that I mean not hiring a contractor to do the work for him. I mean getting his hands dirty, using power tools, hammer and nails to put it up himself, buying materials little by little in cash to get everything done from the footing to the shingles on the roof.
His neighbors took notice. My dad never had to go to the neighbors' for anything. They usually came over, to see what he was doing and how he was doing it. Then they would try the same thing themselves.
Sometimes it ended in disaster.
Thus, my dad quickly gained a reputation not only as an electrician, but the neighborhood handyman. It was a reputation cultivated over two generations.
His father before him did the same thing. Purchasing the family homestead where he lived from 1955 until his death in 2006 (Grandma still lives there today at 93), it was little more than a roach-infested filling station at the time that had gone out of business. My dad was born in the house next door to it, as was his older sister and younger brother.
Though raising five children on a crane operator's salary, Grandpa fixed it up little by little, until it bore no resemblance at all to what it once was. He also rescued discarded appliances and stripped them of their salvageable parts. Who knows, he might need them one day.
"I NEVER throw anything away!" he exclaimed one day.
I guess you could say he was one of the first 'hoarders', but none of the parts he stockpiled found their way into the house any further than his workshop. They usually took their place in the three 'shanties' he had on his property. Car radios, electric fan motors, sweepers, gas caps, spark plug wires, you name it, he had it. Fred Sanford (or Albert Steptoe to my British friends) would have been envious.
As the years went by, Dad (and Grandpa before him) was usually called upon to help a neighbor out with a problem. Whether it was a short circuit or legal problem, he never turned anyone away, nor did he ever ask for a dime or call in a favor.
And more often than not, he's taken for granted.
Many neighbors often drop by his garage to visit and chat. One is a friend from his days as a township police officer. The misanthropic are often misunderstood, and this fellow is no exception. He can be brash and downright abrasive, but would give the shirt off his back if you needed it and without a second thought.
Dad and Tom had talked about the ingratitude of a 'grantee' one day, but neither of them really let it bother them all that much.
"You know Freddy," said Tom, "when we get to Heaven, I think that gate's gonna swing a little easier for us."
My dad just smiled and nodded.
I still call on my dad every once in a while when I'm having a problem that I don't think I can tackle myself.
He's always been willing to help, and while he can't do much electrical work anymore these days, he's willing to try. I just have to remember to watch carefully to make sure I know how to do it in the future...for the day will come where I'll have to do it for myself or possibly someone else.
And he will always leave here with a thank you and a bottle of wine...minimum.
NEXT WEEK: Shoot first
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