Every year, this time in May, my mind reflects about my father. He passed away two years ago at the age of 97. He never bragged about being smart but had the working man’s savvy. He understood the common man. He was quiet yet quick to contribute a joke or two that I’d heard a thousand times each.
One of his favorites was to pull a grandchild aside and convince him that his grandpa was the fastest gun in the West. In other words, he could pull his six-shooter from the holster and aim it so fast that it would almost be a blur. Back then it was called drawing the gun. He would take his drawing-the-gun stance, look at the grandchild, and say, “Wanna see me draw?” The grandchild, standing there wide-eyed with wonder, would always say yes. His grandpa wouldn’t move a muscle and then would say, “Wanna see me do it again?” That performance always brought on a laugh even though we’d all heard it so many times.
Dad’s memory was sharp as a tack right to the very end.
Once or twice a year I would drive him to the Henry’s Lake area where he was born. We would drive the back roads, allowing him to reminisce and tell me stories that I’d heard countless times.
On one particular ride we stopped at an old and unoccupied cabin. The cabin could not have been any bigger than 12 feet by 12 feet. My father’s eyes were fixated on the wornout structure. I almost knew the upcoming story by heart. He then proceeded to tell me how he and his family spent a Saturday night with the Jones family, the owners of the cabin. He was six years old.
It was January and cold. My grandparents were helping the family insulate their tiny home. After the work was completed, instead of going home, they decided to stay the night, due to an unexpected blizzard. A spread of venison stew and scones warmed the bellies of everyone.
Then the children were sent to bed, sleeping on planks barely feet from the ceiling where the heat would rise and keep them warm. The parents would enjoy games of pinochle all night.
Dad said that after a few minutes of trying to get to sleep, he could hear someone outside screaming. He told grandma and she passed it off as the wind. He said he remembers hearing a woman screaming again for help. He told grandma again and this time she also thought it sounded like a scream. She opened the cabin door to see the school marm half frozen to the entrance gate. The school marm had been driving home in the blizzard when her car got stuck in a snowdrift. She then attempted unsuccessfully to walk home. Lucky for her, she wandered onto the cabin and much needed hospitality. Grandma brought her in, placed her next to the woodstove and her life was saved. Dad said he remembered it like yesterday, even though it happened 90 years ago.
My cousin and I were talking and we both agreed that there were times when talking with our fathers we were not listening as we should have been.
Spending time with my father and allowing him to bounce his memory and stories off me should have been priceless. I regret I didn’t ask more questions. If only he were here to tell those same stories, I would absorb myself in every detail and focus on being able to know him even better. — Bryce Angell
