The phone rang out at 3:00 in the morning. It was Zeta. She was my mom and dad’s neighbor for the last twenty five years. “Roy, you better get over here quick. I see flames coming out of your dad’s air conditioner.” I jumped up, told my wife, got dressed and ran out the door. It was only a ten minute drive to dads. All I could think about was “what the hell did he do. I’m going to have to help him put out the small fire.” I was actually a little pissed that I had to wake up in the middle of the night. I drove on until I saw that his entire street was blocked off by fire trucks.
My mom was born and raised in Nazi Germany. Her family helped move allied servicemen who got lost behind enemy lines back to safe territory. She was born on May 20, 1924. Her mother died when she was very young. She once told me that she was in the hospital with pneumonia when a bird flew to her window and told her that her mom just died. She was hysterical as the nurses rushed into her room to see what was wrong. She never told me how old she was except that she was very young. She had two sisters and one brother. They were all raised by her dad. When the war came they just fought to survive. Mom met an American soldier who stayed with them. They fell in love and married near the end of the war.
His name was Tom Lape. I think he was from New York. He was shipped back home and soon sent for her. She spent weeks on a ship steaming towards the United States. She traveled the path that so many others did. Her name is written on the records at Ellis island still today. Tragically, as Tom was driving to pick up his new bride he was killed in a fatal car accident. That left mom sitting on the dock on her luggage. She couldn’t speak English and had no place to go. A woman saw her and her heart went out to her. She was a young Doctor from Toledo, Ohio. My mom never told me this story. It was that Doctor who eventually became our family Doctor, who told me this story years later. Mom eventually came to live with Tom’s brother and wife in New York. She later told my wife that he was mean to her so as soon as she could she left. Somehow she ended up in Maumee, Ohio and rediscovered her friend the Doctor.
The details aren’t clear to me but mom eventually went on a vacation to Missouri. As the story goes she met my dad there. They met and liked each other right away. He was there with his older brother and new wife. They had a great evening together and decided to drive to Kentucky where they married. They didn’t know each other for twenty four hours yet they wanted to get married. They ended up back in Toledo. He couldn’t find any work in Missouri so they went to Toledo. That was where they raised their family. They stayed married until they died.
Dad was raised during the depression. He was born on March 6, 1922. He had five brothers and a sister. His mom and dad rented the kids out to farmers for the summer to work so they had some income. It was a hard way to grow up but dad was smart and strong. Unfortunately for all of us, he began drinking at an early age. He joined the Marines and fought in the Philippines during World War II. He saw things that no man should see. He rarely talked about it unless he was drunk. I know the terror of those things followed him all of his life.
I had a great childhood. I somehow kept an optimistic attitude back then. I always looked to the bright side of things. Dad taught me how to hunt and fish and gave me a love of the outdoors. A kid lived next door to us who was only four days younger than me. We were best friends all the way until high school. He was living with his single mom. His dad died when he was very young. In many ways my dad was his dad too. If we got into trouble together, we both got a whipping. Dad treated Keith like he was his own.
It was hard dealing with his drinking. My mom despised liquor in any form. I think I was about four when I saw my mom’s first black eye. Dad used to get paid on Friday and we wouldn’t see him until Sunday afternoon. He would come home and turn on the country music to nurse his hangover. He played it so loud that it drove me outside. I hate old country music to this day. Sometimes mom would argue with him and he would hit her. I always tried to protect her but I was too small and young. One night when I was about fourteen I woke up from the sound of my mom crying. I knew what was going on. I went to my closet and grabbed my baseball bat. It was dark in their room and the only light was behind me. “Stop it now. If you hit her again I’m going to beat you with this bat.” I was shaking so bad I could hardly hold the bat. I knew he was going to kick the shit out of me. My mom desperately kept telling me that it was okay and to go back to bed. I knew she feared for my life. I just stood there shaking. “It’s alright son, you can go back to bed. I won’t hurt her,” he said lovingly. I turned and walked back to bed. Dad never hit her again.
Mom contracted lung cancer. It was inoperable. She got radiation treatments and they almost killed her. My Aunt Mary came from Germany and nursed mom back to reasonable health. My wife and I spent the next two years taking her shopping and whatever else she wanted to do. There is a German village in Windsor, Canada that we took her to all the time. She missed her home so we tried to give her some home the best we could. She died on 8/8/88. I’ll never forget that day. Dad was rushed to the hospital with a bad emphysema attack. He couldn’t breathe so my wife and I rushed him to the hospital. My brother stayed with mom. We stayed with dad all day and into the night. As we were walking back to our car we passed by a nurses station. “There is a call for you.” It was my brother. “Mom just died.” We rushed back to their home. There she was laying on her bed with her mouth wide open. Our Pastor was there making all the arrangements. He was great. He called an ambulance and they came and got moms body. We prayed together and then went home.
The next day I had to begin the process of putting a funeral together. Dad was still in the hospital and my brother couldn’t function. He was a mess understandably. I put off my grief until mom was buried and dad was back home.
The next two years dad was depressed. He was newly retired and mom was gone. He was alone and didn’t really have anything to do. I always thought it was interesting that it took moms death for him to discover how much he loved her. We did our best to give him what he needed but we never really could. One night while we were out with him his house was broken into and they stole all his guns. That really shook him up. The only gun he had left was an old flare gun. He installed double key dead bolts on his doors to try to feel safe.
I turned into the alley behind dads house. I raced down the alley and pulled in next to dads car. I ran into the house to discover the smell that has lived with me all my life. That smell of burnt wood. Everything was wet and there were firemen everywhere. I started asking what happened to the old man who lived there. I searched the whole house for him. I knew he was okay. He just had to be. Finally a tall fireman stopped me and asked me how large of a man was my dad. I looked at him puzzled by the question. My dad was 5′-8″ tall and weighed 145 lbs. I just said, “no.” The fireman proceeded to tell me that he stumbled over my dad and that dad almost kicked his ass. When the fire started dad tried to get out through the kitchen. His keys were in the living room where the fire was. He couldn’t get out. He tried to put the fire out with the small hose attached to the sink. Finally he decided to jump out the kitchen window to safely. When he opened the window he created a draft and the smoke knocked him down to the floor. They finally got him outside to waiting paramedics and they rushed him to the hospital. It was only minutes before I arrived. As soon as I knew where dad was I flew back home and picked up my wife and we rushed to the hospital. I just knew he would be alright. He was still in the emergency room when we arrived. His ears were singed and his face was red and looked like a balloon. I didn’t recognize him. It was then that I finally realized how serious it was. It was the day after Thanksgiving.
Dad was so depressed that he always slept on the couch. He had a boom box blaring country music on the back of the couch while the TV was on. He never knew if it was day or night. He kept that stupid flare gun next to him all the time for fear he would be broken into again. We think he got startled and shot the gun into the corner and started the fire.
I can’t remember that Thanksgiving. I don’t know where we ate it or how we ate it with. It’s a complete blank to me. We spent the next three weeks in the waiting room.
We had just started attending a new dynamic church. The Pastor was young and already in great demand. He was already preaching all over the country. His family time was precious to him since the demands kept him away from his family most of the time. I called a friend at the church and told him what had happened. We prayed together and I went back to waiting. I fell asleep in a chair. I woke up suddenly and there was Pastor. He touched me on the shoulder and asked if he could see dad and pray for him. He was on his way to have his Thanksgiving dinner with his parents. As we approached dad I remember the beeps of the machines and the sound of the ventilator. Those sounds send chills down my spine even today. He asked the doctor what dad needed the most. The doctor said, ” we need his heart to be strong”. Pastor prayed for dads heart and we were told to leave. In the waiting room we prayed together and Pastor left for his parents.
It was Christmas Eve. My brother and I and our wives always went out to a nice dinner on Christmas Eve. It was our new Christmas tradition. We decided to eat that night so we told the hospital where we would be. We wanted something normal in our life that night. It wasn’t a pleasant dinner at all. All we talked about was dad. As we were finishing the waitress came over to tell me that I had a phone call. It was the hospital. Dad just died. We cried as we drove back down the familiar path to the hospital. There he was. The doctor told us that his body just began shutting down. It was funny but his heart stayed strong until the end. All the machines unhooked. It was quiet and peaceful. He was gone.
I found myself arraigning my second funeral in two years. They had an open casket. They never shaved dad while he was in the hospital so the funeral director left a mustache on dad. His face had so much makeup on it that you could smell it across the room. It didn’t look close to my dad’s face. I had them close the casket and I put up his Marine picture his picture on top. The funeral was uneventful and finally over. We moved on and tried to live our lives without dad. My three kids were young then. My oldest daughter was eleven, my middle daughter was nine and my son was only two. I was happy that my girls at least knew dad. My son was too young to remember much. I regret that. I know that my son would have loved my dad. They would have made great buddies.
Every Christmas Eve I think of dad. His tragic ending and how much I miss him. It’s still painful after all these years. Like all untimely deaths it was painful and left us asking why. What could I have done different? Maybe if I took that flare gun away from him. I don’t know. You can what if yourself to death. I hope he knew how much I loved him. I miss you dad and I love you.
The Hunter 