Ask most any son who’s the hero of their lives? A great portion of the responses will point to a father or father figure. Though far from normal, I am, never having been accused of being typical or from a typical family — still my dad was the hero of my life. (except, maybe for a short time, where he was running neck and neck with the Six Million Dollar Man (Lee Majors))
Maybe, in retrospect I should have been more enamored with his accomplishments as an artist, an artist in a field most young boys would have died to have had insider access to — comics. But truthfully, his skill as an artist was just one of his many amazing attributes. As his son so many other “dad” attributes took center stage. I’ve always felt that my dad was a prime example of understated grit.
There were many examples of his tenacity throughout my childhood. Such as his never give up attitude, be it regarding a work related deadline or the repair of just about anything. He would stay up, push on or try, try again as long as it took to complete the project. But alas, there’s that youthful ride this site is spawned from. That ride for me was the penultimate example of his ”true grit”.
As a child he used that same ideology to teach himself the skills of illustration. Studying his idols and honing his art, mastering his craft with each new drawing. His progression from grade school up until the onset dementia is represented below.
He instilled his unspoken route to success in all of his children…through unwavering perseverance, self-confidence and humility one could obtain their goals. He did so by solely leading his life with these qualities. The hierarchy of devotion and responsibility in his life was wife, children, family, friends and charity. His dedication to his work was the interwoven vehicle that allowed for the fulfilling of what he saw as his lifetime duties and obligations.
He was also a practical joker of epic proportions and loved puns, limericks. Our family was easy foder for his michivoeusness. Preying on our naïveté and inate trust in him, we were easy marks. Funny thing about this was the honest never tell a lie guy could keep the straightest of faces during his con. His not lying but the vagueness of setup would allow you to draw your own oft misguided conclusions.
“Unearthed from a clay tablet dated to ~1900 BCE, the oldest known joke hails from ancient Sumer, a Mesopotamian cradle of civilization: ‘Something which has never occurred since time immemorial: a young woman did not fart in her husband’s lap.’ This cheeky quip, scribbled in cuneiform, predates even the Epic of Gilgamesh—Sumer’s legendary tale of the hero-king Gilgamesh, composed around 2100 BCE—by a couple centuries. While Gilgamesh wrestled gods and sought immortality, everyday Sumerians were chuckling at flatulence, proving humor’s timeless gust.”
Credit to Grok (xAI) for digging up this ancient guffaw from the sands of time.
A classic example of word play, was my sister asking him who he voted for, in his world, first, one never asked this question (southern manners). Second as principled as he was, he would never seek to guide or directly influence political leanings of his child, wanting for her to come to her own conclusions. A closeted staunch southern republican, (once followed and questioned by Mc Carthy’s men for being a member of the National Cartoonists Society), if you listened closely to his rhetoric, it really wasn’t hard to guess his vote. But still in keeping it clever an answer without an aanswer, he simply replied to my sister “the right one”. She admitted to me that it was decades later before she understood the pun.
This mild miss direction was used on me as a child when he stated climbing up BlackMountain that he pedaled the whole way. As a child, I took that to mean he pedaled the 60lbs of Elgin continuously up the climb to the top. This became what I saw as an epically crazy show of cycling strength. He successfully framed him self as an even larger than life dad I already knew him to be. It wasn’t until after his death while contemplating retracing his childhood ride, 50 years later, that I got the clever misdirection. Peddling the whole way, did not mean that one did not stop to rest. Since my dad had already passed, I couldn’t even out him on this one. Worst of all I fell for it and he never got the satisfaction, or I his grin and guffaw at the revelation one great long term word play.
Two of what I consider to be his greatest practical jokes, though I was not around for one or old enough to recall the second they went as follows… Returning home from work in the city, my father was greeted at the door by my young sisters complaining about how terrible our mom had treated and or punished them throughout the day. Without speaking a word he drags my mom into the bedroom and slams the shut. Suddenly there are loud banging sounds and my mother is screaming, then silence. I always pictured my sisters standing outside that door terrified by what they had caused. Then the door swings open and my father red faced, steps out and my sisters slowly enter the hall. The walls, covered with bloody looking red streaks, as they pass, my father informs him that he took care of it by swinging by the ankles against the walls. Crying they ran to their disheveled mother sitting on the bed holding her head. Apparently that bit of theatre was quite successful in behavior modification — their daytime behavior improved and the attempts of pitting of our parents against one another ceased. The downside was the red lipstick was insanely hard to wipe off the walls (maybe and unintended reminder to them?).
The second setup (before my birth but well documented) involves my sisters wanting the popular doll of the time for Christmas — The Betsy Wetsy. The doll rage of the day could be filled with water and would wet her daipers, requiring the child to change them. Christmas came and Santa brought the dolls. So, after a few days of play the dolls and my sisters were very attached to one another. My dad sensing a setup to bring a bit of real life to this situation and another family gag for all time, he couldn’t resist. One morning my sisters awakened to find their dolls sitting on the toilets, bottoms smeared with poo and suspiciously square poo chunks floating in the toilet water. Now confronted with the very gross un-lady behavior, they took to the toilet paper, held there nose and began the cleanup. Mind you this was done very cautiously, god forbid they come in contact with poo. After the cleanup and flushing was complete, my father had committed the reactions to one hell of a prank for prosperity Kodachrome. My older sister probably knew it was prank at some point, but was still not sure enough to raise a challenge and touch the faux peanut butter poo. Some forty years late he still laughed and never failed to crack open a wide grin from his cohort in “child abuse”, my mom.
Humor aside, my dad would work tirelessly, yet always found the time to help fulfill my needs and wants. From hours of pitching balls, building shelving and an elaborate table to hold my trains and race track at kid’s height for my dream bedroom. Endless repairs of broken toys. Giving me his treasured Hawkman cover art when I was crying in pain from a broken bone. Always taking the time to make educational facts fun and teach everything he knew about anything, fashioning all of it to hold my attention. Of course my retention as a child wasn’t great, but all of his basic lessons resonated in my subconscious throughout my life.
Family first was my father’s edict, he routinely sacrificed his free time to our family, especially his cherished Helen (mom). She needed, he was there and she continually reciprocated tending to “all” of everyone’s needs — a truly amazing couple. As children, blessed in more ways than we deserved. My father’s moniker, bestowed on him by my mother’s family was “saint”, a high bar that he readily lived up-to. Sadly, dementia made my mom, the love his life, unrecognizable to him at times by her aged appearance, but the sound of her voice always was like lightening striking his confusion. Her voice was her, the time period of her, the picture/visual (one he used in his career as a model for many female characters) was not who his mind was caught up in. So her voice, my voice, without seeing us was normal to his later state of mind, our appearances however took some getting used to every time he saw us. Tragedy.
I’m not trying to paint a Ward Cleaver (Hugh Beaumont), but my dad was certainly close. I think as the only son (a surprise later in life pregnancy), I received a lot of leeway and as a male was granted far more for forgiveness and opportunity than my sisters. As a man of the “south” and a child of the 30’s he still had a slightly chauvinistic bend. Oddly he didn’t think woman were not as capable, but instead, thought they should not be subjected to male oriented (dangerous) tasks or have to work their lives away at a career. He wanted to maintain the archetypical women should be cherished and cared for, allowed to create and nourish their young and build strong families. Unfortunately, the times eclipsed him.
Back to Ward, once one acted out to the level that raised his ire, or my mom’s, out came the disciplinarian. The enforcer however was all bark no bite (mom on the other hand, was some bite). That deep gentle southern voice when raised became terrifying, but the hand made and labeled paddle of discipline never struck, nor did the snapping belt ever strike. The show was enough to set one straight. I once braved to look back after a scolding, only to witness him flashing a head shakin’ father’s smile. Even the worst of offenses rarely truly angered this man.
