The End of the Begining

Let me step back a bit in time to make a point or two that is necessary to keep this coherent and to tie some things together.

Much of what I remember from the time just before dad died and in the immediate aftermath I see through a fog. Occasionally something will appear sharp and clear, but mostly it seems like a bad dream.

I remember looking at mom and seeing confusion, sorrow and a helpless look that never seemed to leave her. No smiles. No tears; just plodding from one duty to the next like an automaton. I remember nothing about my sisters: not a single thing; and not too much about myself either, except that I was angry.

When the ambulance came on the 28^th to take him for the last time I stood in the hall plastered up against the wall so that I could be close as they carried the stretcher out. He had them stop in front of me and he wheezed what were his final words to me. He said, “You’ll have to be the man of the house now.” Then he squeezed my hand and they took him away.

He had no way of knowing how hard his last words were going to be for me—nor did I. But I will speak of that another time.

One of my clear memories was of our family doctor, A. E. Flagge, on the phone at our house telling the surgeon who had removed dad’s lung that he was not to bill my mother a single cent. There was a bit of an argument which ended when Dr. Flagge told the surgeon that if mom got a bill, he (Dr. Flagge) and any other doctor whom he could influence would never refer another patient to him. Dr. Flagge never asked for a dime from mom after dad was dead, and I don’t know how many house calls he made, but there were a great many.

He would never have lasted in today’s modern medical world. He was completely independent, treated many poor patients for free and never, ever, dunned anyone for money. He was short, bald and almost round. He rarely didn’t have a cigarette hanging from his lips, even in the exam room—where he also kept some sort of parrot to entertain young kids. He was apt to fart at any time and would insist it was simply a natural bodily function for which he refused to apologize. To my family—and I suspect to many more—he was a great man.

The surgeon with whom he had argued, reduced, but did not eliminate the bill. I would have loved to have heard their next conversation.

Two other moments stand out with complete clarity. I tried out for a little league team. It was like attending a cattle call. It was a new team with a great name, the Atoms. They had sharp uniforms with an atom logo on the sleeve.

There had to be no less than fifty kids that showed. The coach got our attention and then began pointing and calling, “Pitchers over there, Catchers over there, Outfielders over there, etc.” I noticed that only one guy ran toward the catcher spot, so I went there, too. That way I knew my odds were pretty good I’d make the team, and I did, as the starting catcher. 

I had never caught before, but I figured I could learn and do it as well as anyone. In our first game I had two or three hits and drove in a couple of runs. I raced home, burst into the house and hurried to the chaise lounge to tell dad; but neither the chaise nor dad were there, and both were gone for good. I think that was the hardest I ever cried.

The other moment happened earlier. A representative from the funeral home came to the house to “make the arrangements” for dad’s funeral. He sat on the couch with his briefcase on the coffee table. Mom sat in a chair to his right and I stood by the couch on his left.

 

The fellow had a stack of pictures of caskets, and he was picking from among them to show mom. One after another he held up,  each one more expensive that the next.

I noticed from where I stood that the prices for the caskets were on the back of the photos. Mom looked lost and more than a little shaken by the casket prices. I reached into his briefcase and took the whole stack of pictures. I then flipped through them and found caskets for about a third of what he had been showing mom. I picked the cheapest one, showed mom, and said, “I like this one.” Mom, relieved of having to make the decision immediately said, “If you like it then that is what we’ll get.” The salesman was visibly angry and snatched the pictures from me, but the decision had been made and he didn’t fleece my mother. Dad had taught me to pay attention pretty well.

There were several important decisions that had to be made. The first was where were we to live, Cincinnati, or in Wisconsin where mom’s family lived. We had taken summer vacations in Wisconsin several times and seeing farms and farm animals were cool to city kids. When mom asked, we all said Wisconsin.

This decision, which I will talk about later, turned out to be a complete catastrophe for me.

The next big decision was mine alone. Lee Douglas, the druggist who had done so much for the kids in the school and the neighborhood came to the apartment with a couple of other men from the church. They made me this offer: They would pay for my tuition, room and board at a military prep school. (I think it was in Kentucky but I really can’t remember) 

They promised if I maintained my grades, they would guarantee an appointment to West Point upon graduation. I suspect the cost would have come solely from Mr. Douglas, but it was a wonderful offer. Later, when I learned appointments would have to have the endorsement of a congressman I realized the influence Mr. Douglas had.

Mom, who simply didn’t want to make any decisions and was probably still in shock, left it up to me. I decided I didn’t want to leave the family and I declined. Was it the wrong decision? I’ll never know. Not many do-overs in life—but it was a wonderful offer all the same.

The plan was to have a funeral in Cincinnati so all mom and dad’s friends could come, and then ship his body to Wisconsin for another service there for all mom’s relatives, etc.

I stood with mom at the side of the casket for the duration of, what we called then in Cincinnati, “the laying out,” or visitation. The first to come as soon as the doors were opened were some of dad’s African American friends. It took courage for them to come to the East End in racist Cincinnati, but they came and gave their condolences to “Mrs. Mac.”

The rest of the day was a never-ending parade of people. Dad’s father and his wife Florence, dad’s sister Laura and her husband, Jim and their two children, Bev and Jenny Jean were there. Mom’s folks would come in Wisconsin.

At the conclusion of the day, after all but family had gone, and we were piling into Laura and Grandpa’s cars, dad’s step-mother, Florence, the one who had driven dad from the house as a child, asked me to go back into the funeral home to get a rose from dad’s casket. I went.

Dad had looked so small in the casket, but when I went back in they were fitting a cardboard brace around his head and rearranging the body for shipment via rail. It was a shock to see and it made me hate Florence all the more. She died three or four years later and mom made me leave the funeral home because I was laughing at her while she lay in the casket. Everyone else thought I’d been overcome with sadness and was crying. Only mom knew the truth. She scolded me, but not too much.

We rode to Wisconsin in Laura’s Cadillac. It was a long trip. I wasn’t allowed to read because it made Laura’s youngest daughter carsick. Go figure.

The crowd at dad’s service wasn’t as big as in Cincinnati; mostly just mom’s relatives and friends of mom from back in the day. I don’t remember much except that it was hot and I was tired. Below is a picture taken the day dad was buried. Not our best day for a photo.

Taken on the day dad was buried in June of 1961

Mom was upset that they had the year of dad’s birth wrong on the temporary marker. It said 1913 rather than 1912. It would be changed later, but I remember she was bothered very much by the error.

We stayed with Grandma and Grandpa. Mom, her own personal hell just beginning, went back to Cincinnati to prepare to move. She brought very little furniture back as what we had wasn’t worth moving. I lost my rock and comic book collections but she did bring my baseball cards.

When she did return she found a small house to rent just three doors down from her mom and dad, and next to her brother Bill and his wife Dorothy. It was so small there was no place for a bed for her, so she slept on the couch. She never once complained. Ever. 

There is still more bad news to come, but I'll have at least one wonderful story to tell. Stay tuned.