My father died on September 21st, and I have had some time to reflect upon what was a long and unique life for the person who was Frank Ford.
My relationship with my dad was off-and-on. Never a warm man, my father was a child of the Great Depression, having been born in the first half of the 1920s to a mother who didn't want him, since she wasn't married, and shipped him off to his grandparents to be raised by them. He never liked his mother as a result, but adored his grandmother, as it was she and his grandfather who raised him.
My father grew up poor, often half-humorously telling me that until he grew up the only part of the chicken he ever saw was the gravy; stories were related about spending an entire day in a movie theater for ten cents, with a bag of overripe bananas picked up from the trash at a fruitstand for refreshment. His grandfather dressed him in clothing picked up from second-hand stores, and he told me that when he joined the Army Air Corps to go into World War 2, the best thing about being in the service was the food.
Dad ended up being a bombardier, with a lot of missions under his belt in the European theater of the war (more than was necessary to complete his obligation) and he was about to go to the Asian theater when the bombs were dropped and Japan surrendered.
He went home, met my mother, and lived a fairly frugal existence with their new daughter, Kathleen (my daughter is named for my sister, who is now deceased). My mom had a pretty interesting family, which I might talk about in a later post, but all I can say is, for many reasons, she was the best thing that ever happened to my father. She stuck with him through his moods, through spending money on things that he wanted but that they should have saved, and finally moved to a farm in Oregon with him and all of us kids because he decided he wanted to be a farmer.
I will say that growing up on the farm was the best thing that could have happened to a boy who was surrounded by my grandfather's books on natural history (my grandfather on my mother's side was famous in his own right, having been integral to helping the Japanese reseed the dead US west coast oyster beds in an attempt to revive the oyster industry there). When I wasn't working with animals, I was out catching them. We had a rock quarry where I could practice target shooting, and lots of snakes and lizards to catch. We had ponds where ducks would stop on their way to the game refuge adjacent to our land, and so we always had wild duck in the freezer, as well as quail and venison. It was a lonely way to grow up for most people, but my dad pretty much disliked everyone, and it suited him, so I suppose some of that tendency rubbed off on me.
My mother died a few years ago, and I was there holding her hand in the hospice when she went. Dad, who was always the big macho guy, pretty much went downhill after that, and my brother talked him into selling his home in California and moving to miserable weather in Laramie, Wyoming. Looking back on it, I think my father would have been better off staying in California at an assisted living place, but my brother, who is sort of a bigshot (or perhaps thinks he is, and makes sure everyone hears about it), talked him into leaving, and the rest is history.
My father was a one-of-a-kind guy. Hard to live with, but who gave me a few moral underpinnings that are valuable, mostly around the ideal of keeping one's word. He gave me a few other tendencies that I probably could have done without, such as holding grudges until they shovel dirt over me, but I'm working on that. He wasn't happy without mom, and he's probably better off now. And now all that's left of my immediate family is my brother and myself, and since my brother's too important for anyone to talk to, for all intents and purposes my family is my wife, my daughter, and me, which suits me fine.
I'll miss my father, but it also makes me look upon one's life a little more closely. All the things he did, all his experiences, all the things he collected through the years, and POOF, when you die all the material things mean nothing at all. It makes you realize that your life on earth probably means very little compared to what your life will be like after you pass on -- at least if you make the right choices. All I can say is: I hope my parents made the right choices.
Farewell, Dad.
