A Story About My Dad

 Last Sunday was Father's Day and I thought I would try to remember some warm stories about my dad.  But I had none. 

He wasn't an abusive parent.  He was a man who could barely cope with his own life, much less finding himself a single father of two small children.  

Born in 1910, he was immediately abandoned by his mother.  An elderly couple took him in for a few years but he mostly grew up on his own.  At a very young age he was hired as a caddy at a prestigious golf course in French Lick, Indiana.  French Lick is still a posh resort area. 

It's where this photo was taken.  He looks like a cute, well-to-do child but, in truth, he was destitute and alone in the world.  I have no idea what kind of education, if any, he had.  He was mysterious.  He was a loner.  

He married my mother and, shortly after having two children, first me, then my brother Paul, it was discovered that my mother had tuberculosis.  She spent seven years in sanatorium prior to her death. I never really knew her. 

My dad worked as a laundry/dry cleaner person.  We had no car so he left early and came home late.  Paul and I were latch-key kids before than term had been invented.  

All of the above information is help you understand how counterintuitive the story below is:

During World War II, my dad ran the laundry at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indianapolis. While it's not well known,  nearly 425,000 prisoners of war were sent to detention camps in the U.S.  Fort Harrison served as one of those camps.  It housed German and Italian prisoners of war.  

One of the German prisoners was assigned to my dad at the laundry.  For whatever reasons, they became fast friends and remained so even after "Oscar" was reassigned. 

There came a time when Fort Harrison became a site for an Army Disciplinary Barracks, a prison compound for American servicemen convicted of offenses by the military court system.  Army regulations did not allow POW camps in the same military installation that housed Army prisoners, so the POW camp was closed and the German prisoners, including Oscar,  moved to Fort Knox. 

However, Oscar and my dad stayed in touch and when the war was over, my dad petitioned to allow Oscar to begin the process of allowing him to remain in this country and work toward citizenship.  

And, after several years, it happened.  I remembered the day they were reunited.  Prior to that, I don't remember my dad ever being as happy as he was to see Oscar walk up to our front porch. 

***

The Shootest 1976

 

Who would image that I'd come across a movie that emphasizes two of my favorite topics. 

- End of life issues 

- Living like a true Christian when the going gets tough.   

Last week I saw an interview with Ron Howard.  He was asked about his encounter with John Wayne when they were filming "The Shootist" in 1976.

Yesterday I watched it again.  And I loved it.  Again.

The time and place:  It's set in 1906 in Carson City, Nevada.  This is not the dusty, one street town we're used to seeing in westerns,  This Carson City has electricity, running water, telephones, lovely homes and a trolley.  Think of a western version of "Meet Me in St. Louis." 

The Premise:  A former sheriff and famous gunslinger discovers he's riddled with cancer and dying.  He chooses to do it in Carson City. 

John Wayne:  This was Wayne's last movie.  He died from cancer three years after it was finished.  A life long heavy smoker, Wayne had already had a lung removed in 1964.  Knowing this was his last certainly made the movie much more poignant.  Playing a man like J. B. Books is the way we'd expect Wayne to go, with guns blazing.

 

However, there is very little violence in this film.  It's a controlled and intelligent performance. 

Lauren Bacall:  She plays, Bond Rogers, a widow who rents rooms in her lovely home.  She rents a room to Books.  Throughout the movie she treats Books with kindness and respect.  Unlike her other renters who move because they can't be seen living in the same house with a famous gunslinger, thereby making it difficult for her to to keep afloat.  She continues to treat him with loving kindness. She's a Christian woman, but she's not pious.  She's a servant, like we should be when we're around suffering people.  She doesn't judge him.  

(And they'll know we are Christian by our love, by our love.  Yeah, they'll know we are Christian by our love.) 

The time she helps Books out of the bathtub is an example.  Believe me, when you've been strong and in charge your entire life, it's hard when we must make ourselves this vulnerable and accept this help.  

Ron Howard:  He plays Bond's teenaged son, Gillum.  He's a drinking, swearing (but good) kid.  At the end of the movie we have to accept that Opie (Oops, I mean Gillum) will most likely be a gunslinger like Books.  Or maybe not. 

Jimmy Stewart:  He has a small role as a doctor.  In the beginning Books travels to Carson City to have the doctor, an old friend, confirm the diagnosis he'd previously been given.  The doctor tells Books just how excruciating the next few weeks will be.  

This is a western, but with much deeper themes.  Books is vulnerable.  It's a controlled and intelligent performance.  A fitting tribute to John Wayne.  And I'm impressed  he would choose this as his final film. 

I saw it on YouTube for free.  

***  

I Love Florida

 I truly do love Florida.  However, every single day there is so much crazy to write about.  Years ago, I occasionally wrote "Florida Man" stories.  When the newspaper headlines began with "Florida man....",  I knew it was gonna be a doozy.  And then, eventually, the term was used often and many times much better than me, illustrating our wacky behavior from time to time. 

Besides our own Scott Maxwell, the writer who did this best has been, in my book, Fred Grimm.  Fred has been a Fort Lauderdale resident and columnist for the Sun Sentinel for many decades.  But, today, in our own Orlando Sentinel, he announced he was hanging it up.  

Below is the first paragraph of his column.  I hope you enjoy it and will find the article and read all of it.  You will be impressed. 

So long. 

Not that it hasn't been fun chronicling Florida's descent into a waterlogged, python-infested, uninsurable, hurricane-pummeled, book-banning, gay-bashing authoritarian dystopia, but I'm outta here. 

As you know, I wrote a book a while back titled Florida, A Love Story.  The story starts in 1884 and lets us know immediately how hard it was to live in Florida.  Maybe that's partially why we're so zany to this very day.  

For the dedication, on page 3, I chose to write this:

To all of you who love Florida, 

    - from the panhandle which we lovingly call the Redneck Riviera, to Key West, where we can enter an Ernest Hemingway look-alike contest or celebrate Fantasy Fest where anything goes

    - for those who love our flora and fauna our swamp lands and woods, our indigenous wildlife, and work to keep them flourishing

    -for those who love our warm winters, including our visitors from all over the world who make our lives richer in various ways

    - for those who love our hot summers, especially those of us who love to swim in our beautiful pools and enjoy our 825 miles of breathtakingly beautiful beaches

    - for my family and friends who are there for me, winter and summer, in good times and bad,

I dedicate this book, Florida, A Love Story. 

    ***