He was not a man to suffer fools gladly, and he had nine children, one or two of whom were fools at any given time. He was always in the curb nonsense mode, so most of the Christmas season found him unable to focus on anything but overcoming frustration and curbing greed. Dad did a lot of herding cats.
Although it failed him more times than not, he stubbornly believed that it was better to give than to receive. And this, of course, is the toughest lesson to teach any child, since childish reasoning thinks that's pure nonsense.
Had he not been stubborn, something he picked up from the mules he trained to work, he would have given up on the idea that all gifts come from effort and the effort comes first.
Because he believed it was better to give than receive, he was poor most of his life. His work was good, and whatever he decided to do, it was done right. Shoddy work ranked right up there with lay-around mule. The problem was that he never set the price as high as the quality of what he turned out.
If he were alive today, he probably would feel something akin to a Confederate soldier watching Gen. Robert E. Lee sign the surrender papers. He would think that shoddiness carries much too high a price. He would feel isolated in a shrinking minority of those who can give without expectations.
However, he would have kept on attacking the windmill by himself. Dad had no fear of being alone. (Although, with nine children, he must sometimes have craved it!)
None of this is to say dad didn't like Christmas. He enjoyed it very much. It's just that he knew it was a season that would soon get out of hand if somebody wasn't in the director's chair. He knew where the Red Cedar grew that had the best shape, knew how to cut it down, and used his considerable carpentry skills to build a stand that held it straight there by the west window. He liked sitting with us (after chores!) to string popcorn for the tree. He would check out, though, when the talk rolled around to getting. He knew where the gift was.
What he would think about the current controversy about Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays? Nonsense and foolishness, the blather of frightened people. I've never heard him use either expression. He could see Christmas and figured everybody else could, too.
Dad did know from his work with horses what fear can do. A foal, be it horse or mule, is a bundle of fear, and most of the training is getting the animal to see what's a threat and what isn't. From there, a colt could gauge how large or small the threat was. The plow is not going to overtake you and consume you. That done, a mule or horse could be taught to see the value in a straight furrow.
In many ways, I was my dad's toughest, most frustrating foal. It started when I was about 12 and he was a bit younger than I am now. We came to the fork in the road on a spring evening when dad swung the bucket of slop over the fence and was surprised when all of it splashed on the ground.
On a crooked Sassafras pole 30 feet in the air behind me was the trough, now with compartments and 13 holes bored into the front of it. I had a martin box for these largest swallows due to arrive any day.
The realist looked at me, at the birdhouse, back at me. For a moment I was sure he would punch me between the eyes and knock me cold, dead even! He could do that to a mule.
The realist had fathered a dreamer, but one that wasn't afraid of the dreams or where they would take him. He didn't hit me between the eyes, just shook his head and walked away.
Dad pretty much hated anything with a feather on it. Mom's hobby and business was chickens and eggs, and most of the gifts at Christmas came from her egg money. This was their only incompatibility, and both endured it in the other because there were so many other things that were good and important.
For about the next 30-odd years, dad fussed and fretted that I did not see what was as plain as the nose on his face. My thoughts captured the patterns of the greatest flyers ever made -- purple martins. Truth was in fiction as well as in fact.
Toward the end (his, not mine), he stopped galloping down his real road. He stopped and looked back, and I'm pretty sure he saw what I wanted him to see. It would take a few severe downdrafts for me to stop sailing in thunderstorms long enough to see the ground where he stood coming at me.
Both of us have spent our lives putting in the effort and hoping for that greatest gift of all -- having someone hear you and say, “Yes, I see.”
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