April 17, 2005

• 1928

  
  

  On April 17, 1928, 'Depression' was a shallow spot on the ground; 'Nazi' a curious but meaningless term, Charlie Chaplin the modern hit of the silver screen, the Ford Model T the pride of the roadways, and my Dad the newest baby in Chattanooga Tennessee.

  
  

  The first son of a beautiful woman and a dashing, entrepreneurial veteran, with two doting older sisters peeping into the bassinet, it was an auspicious beginning.  Then the economy crumbled, two more sons were born and other children fostered into the family, the father's prospects faltered, his mercurial temper rose to the fore and the mother fought against depression and disappointment. 

  
  

  But my Dad weathered 'auspicious' and 'adversity' with the same incurious inattention, his mind fixed on musings of his own.  He created road-tar bombs in his mother's kitchen, sent the family poultry off the roof of the house on home-made parachutes, and fashioned a diving suit so his best buddy could plumb the local artesian well.  He lived in a creative world of his own so disengaged from the reality his family knew that they shook their heads and wondered whether he were merely stupid or truly deranged.  Over half a century later, his eldest sister, the powerful matriarch of the clan, informed me firmly that the family had considered my mother (who thoroughly organized my father's life the moment she stepped into it) a godsend.  How else would little Billy have ever survived?

  
  

  I give my mother complete credit for his survival, but I also wonder whether my father's charmed life (survivor of vehicle crashes, dismembered fingers, heat exhaustion, concussions, heart attack, and the conflagration of his workshop) is due largely to the people who always seem to be there to pull him out of the wreckage, or his own ability to simply walk on by.

  
  

  This is not to say that Dad is oblivious.  Indeed, he's entirely focused, but the focus sheers right on past banalities such as family, friends, physical circumstance, the availability of food and shelter, or (most importantly) the opinion of others.  The founder and owner of a highly successful high-tech R&D firm, a man with tens of patents to his name, a tinkerer and visionary forever several decades out-of-step with the slow world around him:  no wonder many still consider him slightly stupid or possibly insane.

  
  

  Dad hasn't reached 77 without recognizing that the occasional nod to the mundanities of the here-and-now is a necessary palliative to his fellow man.  My childhood memories have him mostly off at work or grumblingly under the car; now he hangs out on the sofa with my daughters and marvels at their artwork.  He makes scheduled appearances at the county library to speak on the state of the world.  He goes to reunions with his brothers and sisters and suffers reversion to 'Bad Billy' status while they all chatter and laugh around him.

  
  

  But when he's done grandfathering and proclaiming from the wisdom of age and playing the family game, he goes back to his workshop and invents another machine for a new and better world.  Because that's who he is.

  
  

  

  
  

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

  • 6:41 am
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