This is my forty-fifth Father’s Day. I celebrated fifty-two such days as a son. My first memory of my father dates back to our unpaved driveway at 500 N. Edgeworth. Dad decided to pave the driveway of his new home when I was about four. Prior to the paving he used the dirt drive to shell walnuts. I only recall one year, but it stuck for some reason.
He picked up some black walnuts that had fallen from a road side tree. They’re a dirty nut. He brought his treasure home in a burlap bag and dropped the nuts in the driveway. Black walnuts have a hard green outer shell that can stain your hands when you peal the skin. It’s a messy job. Dad thought running over the nuts with the car would help expedite the process. He just left them in the drive, and each time he pulled in or out, the tires did their job. After several days, he put on a pair of gloves, and pulled the outer shell off each nut. The driveway was a mess, but he didn’t care. He just raked up the green goo and tossed it in the garbage.
While he only did that once, once was enough. Mom used the nuts in her snowball cookies at Christmas time. I didn’t like the taste of the nuts, so I left those cookies unattended. Years later, when I married Ruth, I discovered the harsh tasting black walnuts were optional. Ruth uses pecans. I prefer her recipe.
The following spring Dad decided to pave the driveway. He recruited a couple of my uncles, and a few of my older cousins, to help with the job. Since I was only four, I was relegated to watching and prep work. The only tool I was allowed to use was a rake. Dad procured a portable cement mixer, a couple wheel barrows, bags of concrete, hooked up the garden hose, and the rest is history. They started at the entrance of his new garage and poured their way to the street. The uncles did the mixing and the nephews wheeled the cement. The crew used a long two by four and hand trowels to level their work.
Since I did most of the prep work, it wasn’t a perfect job. I think the actual pour took two days. My cousin, Joe, finished the job in high style. I watched in awe as he took the pointed end of a trowel and wrote “Tony Tebo” at the end of the drive. His inscription lasted for over twenty years.
A couple years after I landed the job in Plainwell, the drive began to crack and the basement started to leak. A contractor told Dad the drive needed to be torn out and replaced because “the slope of the drive” was carrying water towards the house. They struck a deal to tear out the old drive and install a new one. It turned out to be a good deal for Dad.
When the excavation began for the new drive, the contractor had extra work because portions of the previous pour were up to thirteen inches deep. Dad, and his crew, decided to fill the deep spots with concrete rather than buy some fill dirt. The removal of the thick concrete added to the job. The contractor protested, but a deal is a deal.
I bought journals for my mom and dad for Christmas in 1995. I wrote the following inscription on the first page of Dad’s book.
Dad, you, Uncle Harry Mac and Uncle Harry Barner have shared dozens of tales from your youth. I love hearing them. Please use this book to write them down so our family will always know “how it used to be.”
I’ll get you more books if you need them! Love Rob
When Dad passed Mom gave me his journal. He wrote his first entry on the day I gave him the book. It’s four pages long. He filled a total of thirteen pages before he passed. His second entry is dated January 9, 1999 and was written in a nursing home. His last entry was written a few months later on April 17th. He wrote a total of six times.
The last nine pages of the book became more difficult to read as his handwriting failed him. A portion of his final entry reads as follows:
I got a surprise the other day. David Tebo stopped in for a couple of hours. I really did not know him at first. He sure isn’t a baby any more. We played cards and he took me for a couple of dollars.
While I’m grateful for his words, I wish Dad had written more. That’s one of the reasons I write this blog. What he did write tells the tale of a man that loved his family above all else. Each of his entries speak of people, not things.
As mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, we add moments to our story each day. I believe no matter how long we live, how much money we make, or how many things we own, our lasting memories will be of the people we loved and who loved us. Start writing, share your moments, even if you only fill thirteen pages.