In Honor of my father-in-law, Wilson O. Ball, who would have been 103 this month.
This time I am going to write not about my dad but about my father-in-law.
As most of you know, Karen Kay died on Nov. 20, 2018, leaving me a widower (strange archaic word) with a large house to clean out and the usual end-of-year activities (donations, finding tax records, getting out the annual Christmas letter) to perform. Meanwhile, I want to take the time to put onto paper one of my favorite family stories.
Karen Kay and I grew up on opposite sides of the state Oklahoma, both children of small businessmen in smallish towns and cities. It is that common background which enabled us to be married for 53 years and never have a single argument over money.
Karen Kay was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis while she was in college, after we were engaged but a year before the wedding. During that summer I was in Wynnewood, Oklahoma, visiting at her parents' home.
While I was lolling around their house, Wilson called from the OTASCO store to ask me to ride along while he delivered a large console TV set to a rural home. I agreed and he came by the house shortly thereafter with the TV already on the truck for our journey to the customer's home. On the way there, he revealed the true purpose of the call.
"Jack, I suppose you know that Karen has been diagnosed with ulcerative colitis." Yes, sir. "Do you know what that means?" I know she will be in constant discomfort and at some point will probably develop colon cancer. "It will also be hard on you and on any children you might have. I just wanted you to know, that if the prospect is frightening or uncomfortable, we won't respect you less if you decide you shouldn't go on with the marriage." Karen Kay and I have talked it over, and we have no plans to change our minds. "But I also know it will be hard financially for you, and with your educational plans, you may find it hard to get the resources to take care of her. Irene and I have talked it over and, although our resources are limited too, we will help you to whatever extent we are able." Thank you, sir. And I knew he was right, he lived close to the financial edge even as my own father did.
That was the kind of man I was raised by: You talk about the good and the bad of the situation, and you offer hope and acceptance. I expect my own father would have had that kind of conversation with his future daughters-in-law if it had been necessary. I am only sorry that my children didn't get to know their maternal grandfather better: he was killed in an automobile accident shortly before turning 50 and while Karen Kay was carrying his third grandchild in her womb.
Here's to Wilson Oscar Ball and the bright legacy he left.
Friday, December 28, 2018
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Living Like My Father
Probably one of the reasons I titled this blog as I did is that at some point in my life I discovered that I was re-living the main outlines of my father's life.
If you have read my earlier posts you know that there were some obvious similarities between besides simply being white, American, and Methodist. (Dad was of solid German stock, not Anglo-Saxon. His forebears had emigrated from Germany in the early nineteenth century to Big Pond, Pennsylvania on the New York border. They lived there until my great-grandfather moved to Guthrie, Oklahoma, shortly after it became state capital upon statehood in 1907. My grandparents met at the German speaking Methodist church a couple of blocks from my great-grandparents' home.) Mother was the WASP -- her earliest ancestor arrived in Jamestown, VA, from England in 1619, a year before the Mayflower landed in Massachusetts.
When Dad and Mom started dating she was a fine physical specimen, but when they married she was damaged goods. She had been playing basketball and fell and (unknowingly) broke her back. The break was diagnosed properly after almost a year of pain and suffering she was hospitalized and it was basically rebroken to heal better: she spent a Dallas summer in an un-air-conditioned hospital in a neck to groin plaster cast. Ouch!
Despite her injury -- which would give her difficulty and pain for the rest of her life, Dad chose to marry her and he supported her and comforted her for decades despite her sufferings and the expense of her care. (Example: for seven straight years she had a headache which was only resolved by a neurosurgeon at Mayo Clinic. For those seven years she had three boys in grade school and Dad was working six 10-hour days a week as a retail baker. But meals were on the table -- we all came home for lunch -- the house was cleaned and our laundry was washed and ironed.) She set a high standard for pain tolerance, and he set a high standard for love and care.
When I met Karen Kay, she was in apparently fine health, but after we became engaged she was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, a disease which brought with it a high probability of colon cancer. The summer following (and before our marriage) her father offered me two things:
1) If I wanted to call off the engagement, the family would understand and would not hold it against me.
2) If I wanted to go ahead with the marriage, they -- despite their limited resources, were willing to assist with the costs, even if it meant mortgaging their home and business.
As most of you know, we married anyway, and before our 16th anniversary she was diagnosed with Stage IV adenocarcinoma of the colon and had everything below her small intestine removed. She was 38 at the time and our kids were in the 3rd, 5th, and 7th grade. I was terrified (how could I raise them without her?!) but she fully recovered and for 37 years simply lived uncomplainingly with the difficulty of defecating into a plastic bag attached to her body. She too had a great deal of pain, suffering, and inconvenience
Both my father and I had made good choices, and neither one of us seemed to have felt any regret at the choice we made.
But the similarity doesn't end there. Dad began working a shift in his father's wholesale bakery at about age 14. He worked there until after he and Mom were married and they had had three boys. Suddenly, at the end of WW II, his father decided to sell the bakery, leaving Dad without a livelihood. We moved from Chickasha to Muskogee (Yes, I am an "Okie from Muskogee") where he worked at another wholesale bakery. But shortly after that a loan from his younger brother enabled him to buy out the business of a Ponca City retail baker, and until all three of us were out of college, that Ponca was home to Mom and Dad. But she always suffered from the high humidity of spring, summer, and fall there in the Great Plains, so after my younger brother finished at OSU, Dad sold the shop and they moved to Phoenix in 1967.
Just as Dad had to pick up and move and finally start his own business to care for his family, so did I. After teaching at institutions in New York, Texas, and Indiana, the small institution in Indiana where I worked and taught went bankrupt. Aa colleague and I founded the nonprofit Environmental Management Institute here in Indianapolis. Tom moved on to other jobs, and despite many challenges, we became and remain one of the premiere asbestos and lead trainers in the Midwest. Our doors have been open for 28 years and we have trained well over 40,000 clients.
All of this is simply a prelude to telling you that all good things must come to an end. As many of you already know, Karen Kay finally gave up the struggle on November 20 of this year. We had her service on December 15 (which she largely wrote) and I was humbled but not surprised by the many people from all over the country and all stages of her life appeared to pay her honor.
Last summer she told me I had to give up my leadership of the Institute at the end of February, 2019, and tomorrow (December 21) my staff are having a retirement reception at the Institute from 2-4 p.m. (and I do not you to come).
But the best news of all is that thanks to one hardworking member of my board, the Institute -- unlike the Tasty Bakery -- will continue. The Indiana state community college System (IVTech) will incorporate the Institute into their operations. My energetic co-Trainer and Training Manager Joan Ketterman will become a Faculty Member and lead the effort for IVTech, so they should have a good shot at getting it well-grounded.
I leave you with one more thought. Several years ago I suddenly realized that all that I have ever achieved I owe to bossy women. I am basically lazy and extroverted, but they have insisted I will not be allowed to act that way around others. You have now met three of them: Mother, Karen Kay, and Joan. Maybe next time I will tell you about a fourth.
If you have read my earlier posts you know that there were some obvious similarities between besides simply being white, American, and Methodist. (Dad was of solid German stock, not Anglo-Saxon. His forebears had emigrated from Germany in the early nineteenth century to Big Pond, Pennsylvania on the New York border. They lived there until my great-grandfather moved to Guthrie, Oklahoma, shortly after it became state capital upon statehood in 1907. My grandparents met at the German speaking Methodist church a couple of blocks from my great-grandparents' home.) Mother was the WASP -- her earliest ancestor arrived in Jamestown, VA, from England in 1619, a year before the Mayflower landed in Massachusetts.
When Dad and Mom started dating she was a fine physical specimen, but when they married she was damaged goods. She had been playing basketball and fell and (unknowingly) broke her back. The break was diagnosed properly after almost a year of pain and suffering she was hospitalized and it was basically rebroken to heal better: she spent a Dallas summer in an un-air-conditioned hospital in a neck to groin plaster cast. Ouch!
Despite her injury -- which would give her difficulty and pain for the rest of her life, Dad chose to marry her and he supported her and comforted her for decades despite her sufferings and the expense of her care. (Example: for seven straight years she had a headache which was only resolved by a neurosurgeon at Mayo Clinic. For those seven years she had three boys in grade school and Dad was working six 10-hour days a week as a retail baker. But meals were on the table -- we all came home for lunch -- the house was cleaned and our laundry was washed and ironed.) She set a high standard for pain tolerance, and he set a high standard for love and care.
When I met Karen Kay, she was in apparently fine health, but after we became engaged she was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, a disease which brought with it a high probability of colon cancer. The summer following (and before our marriage) her father offered me two things:
1) If I wanted to call off the engagement, the family would understand and would not hold it against me.
2) If I wanted to go ahead with the marriage, they -- despite their limited resources, were willing to assist with the costs, even if it meant mortgaging their home and business.
As most of you know, we married anyway, and before our 16th anniversary she was diagnosed with Stage IV adenocarcinoma of the colon and had everything below her small intestine removed. She was 38 at the time and our kids were in the 3rd, 5th, and 7th grade. I was terrified (how could I raise them without her?!) but she fully recovered and for 37 years simply lived uncomplainingly with the difficulty of defecating into a plastic bag attached to her body. She too had a great deal of pain, suffering, and inconvenience
Both my father and I had made good choices, and neither one of us seemed to have felt any regret at the choice we made.
But the similarity doesn't end there. Dad began working a shift in his father's wholesale bakery at about age 14. He worked there until after he and Mom were married and they had had three boys. Suddenly, at the end of WW II, his father decided to sell the bakery, leaving Dad without a livelihood. We moved from Chickasha to Muskogee (Yes, I am an "Okie from Muskogee") where he worked at another wholesale bakery. But shortly after that a loan from his younger brother enabled him to buy out the business of a Ponca City retail baker, and until all three of us were out of college, that Ponca was home to Mom and Dad. But she always suffered from the high humidity of spring, summer, and fall there in the Great Plains, so after my younger brother finished at OSU, Dad sold the shop and they moved to Phoenix in 1967.
Just as Dad had to pick up and move and finally start his own business to care for his family, so did I. After teaching at institutions in New York, Texas, and Indiana, the small institution in Indiana where I worked and taught went bankrupt. Aa colleague and I founded the nonprofit Environmental Management Institute here in Indianapolis. Tom moved on to other jobs, and despite many challenges, we became and remain one of the premiere asbestos and lead trainers in the Midwest. Our doors have been open for 28 years and we have trained well over 40,000 clients.
All of this is simply a prelude to telling you that all good things must come to an end. As many of you already know, Karen Kay finally gave up the struggle on November 20 of this year. We had her service on December 15 (which she largely wrote) and I was humbled but not surprised by the many people from all over the country and all stages of her life appeared to pay her honor.
Last summer she told me I had to give up my leadership of the Institute at the end of February, 2019, and tomorrow (December 21) my staff are having a retirement reception at the Institute from 2-4 p.m. (and I do not you to come).
But the best news of all is that thanks to one hardworking member of my board, the Institute -- unlike the Tasty Bakery -- will continue. The Indiana state community college System (IVTech) will incorporate the Institute into their operations. My energetic co-Trainer and Training Manager Joan Ketterman will become a Faculty Member and lead the effort for IVTech, so they should have a good shot at getting it well-grounded.
I leave you with one more thought. Several years ago I suddenly realized that all that I have ever achieved I owe to bossy women. I am basically lazy and extroverted, but they have insisted I will not be allowed to act that way around others. You have now met three of them: Mother, Karen Kay, and Joan. Maybe next time I will tell you about a fourth.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Reading, Part I
Today and tomorrow I am in Frankfort, Kentucky, teaching state environmental regulators about the OSHA requirements for folks in their jobs. It is, as they say, “a dirty job but someone has to do it.”
Such trips give me the freedom to do what I can seldom manage at home: to sit in a (hotel) room and write. For some time I have had the urge to write a few words about each book as I finish it, but since I get most of my books from the public library, that means STACKS of books sitting around and being rechecked online until I get round to writing them up. Last night I wrote up an even dozen books that had been heaped up over the past couple of months. [Author’s disclosure: I don’t always “read” in the usual sense, as my wife constantly reminds me. Eight of the items were CD audiobooks. But without audiobooks to accompany my commutes, I would get little read.]
I have had a love of reading since the first grade in Jefferson Elementary School where Miss (Mrs?) Manney taught me the fascinating tales of the Tick-Tock Dwarf (the letter T as it’s called on Sesame Street) and his 25 companions. But my love of books predates that time: I was read to at bedtime almost my whole preschool childhood. When I was in high school I wrote an essay about my reading history for English class, and I told how my mother would read to me and my brothers each night. However, when I showed the essay to Mom, she said it wasn’t true: Dad did the reading.
Even at this advanced age my mind boggles: Dad worked 10-12 hours a day at the bakery six days a week, and he still had the time, energy, and desire to read to three squirming boys night after night?
We never fully understand what motivates our parents. A standing puzzle is that Mom had the college degree (U T Austin) and Dad had a single semester at O U Norman at the height of the depression only to realize that his job at his father’s wholesale bakery would provide a more secure future than that apparently in store for the MAs in Norman with who were driving taxis. But while mom’s only serious intellectual activities were playing contract bridge and solving the hard puzzles in the crossword collections she bought at the supermarket, Dad was an almost unstoppable reader in the limited free time he had at home. He always had three or four newspaper/magazine subscriptions and he regularly read Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.
Most people thought of him as a baker, and he was a truly excellent one, but it was his livelihood, not his life. When I asked him, probably while I was elbow deep in the scrub sink at the bake shop and looking for a more pleasurable task, whether he was going to teach me to bake, he replied unhesitatingly “Not unless there is no other job you would like to have.” He took the life he was handed and crafted into a life he could find satisfaction in. And by doing so I think he taught me to do the same. And he helped me become a reader to provide a pathway.
Monday, January 1, 2018
At Christmas dinner my daughter asked each of us to tell about our favorite Christmas food. When it came my turn I did not hesitate before replying “butterflake rolls straight from the oven at the Tasty Bakery.”
During my growing up years my dad ran the Tasty Bakery in Ponca City, a retail bakery that he operated from 1948 when we moved to Ponca from Muskogee until 1967 when he and Mom moved to Phoenix for her health. Christmas Eve was the busiest day of the year, so after reaching junior high age or so we three boys were recruited as additional hands for the operation. Nothing fancy, just the usual kind of step’n’fetch it kind of labor we were all familiar with. By lunchtime (Dad had been at the shop since 4 a.m., so it was closer to 11 than to 12), he would send someone to the neighboring grocery store there on West Grand Avenue to get some butter and he would put a pan of butterflake rolls in the rotary oven to bake. When they were done, we could hardly wait for them to cool before they were broken open, slathered in butter, and the pan was devoured by our family and the help.
I know that my Dad was an exceptional baker, but I also strongly suspect that part of the sweetness of those rolls was that the biblical punishment of “getting thy bread by the sweat of thy face” gave the getting a special sweetness. Meaningful work is sometimes hard to come by, but my father always understood that it was not the work but the family and friends that come with it that are what provide meaning to activities which to many would seem repetitive and pointless. I have been blessed with decades of what many would consider a continual slog to go one more place and develop one more course to one more group of workers. But I too have found both satisfaction and friendship in the doing. My only regret is that it was not a labor I could share with my family.
Karen Kay and I recently finished my oral reading of Arlo Crawford’s A Farm Dies Once a Year, detailing his summer visit as a young, dissatisfied adult back to the family farm in Pennsylvania where he grew up. But he was not a farm kid of the kind I knew, whose families had lived on the land for generations. His father and mother had, as young hippies, decided to go back to the land and grow vegetable. That decision had not only provided for his family and given his children excellent college educations, but it had also enriched his neighbors and apprenticed scores of younger aspiring farmers. It also taught Arlo and his sister the nature of meaningful work from an early age. Yet Arlo, after that summer did not want to be a farmer. But like me the experience freed him to pursue meaningful work of his own shaping.
I hope your choices have worked out as well for you, and I would love to hear your stories of growing up and of growing old.
During my growing up years my dad ran the Tasty Bakery in Ponca City, a retail bakery that he operated from 1948 when we moved to Ponca from Muskogee until 1967 when he and Mom moved to Phoenix for her health. Christmas Eve was the busiest day of the year, so after reaching junior high age or so we three boys were recruited as additional hands for the operation. Nothing fancy, just the usual kind of step’n’fetch it kind of labor we were all familiar with. By lunchtime (Dad had been at the shop since 4 a.m., so it was closer to 11 than to 12), he would send someone to the neighboring grocery store there on West Grand Avenue to get some butter and he would put a pan of butterflake rolls in the rotary oven to bake. When they were done, we could hardly wait for them to cool before they were broken open, slathered in butter, and the pan was devoured by our family and the help.
I know that my Dad was an exceptional baker, but I also strongly suspect that part of the sweetness of those rolls was that the biblical punishment of “getting thy bread by the sweat of thy face” gave the getting a special sweetness. Meaningful work is sometimes hard to come by, but my father always understood that it was not the work but the family and friends that come with it that are what provide meaning to activities which to many would seem repetitive and pointless. I have been blessed with decades of what many would consider a continual slog to go one more place and develop one more course to one more group of workers. But I too have found both satisfaction and friendship in the doing. My only regret is that it was not a labor I could share with my family.
Karen Kay and I recently finished my oral reading of Arlo Crawford’s A Farm Dies Once a Year, detailing his summer visit as a young, dissatisfied adult back to the family farm in Pennsylvania where he grew up. But he was not a farm kid of the kind I knew, whose families had lived on the land for generations. His father and mother had, as young hippies, decided to go back to the land and grow vegetable. That decision had not only provided for his family and given his children excellent college educations, but it had also enriched his neighbors and apprenticed scores of younger aspiring farmers. It also taught Arlo and his sister the nature of meaningful work from an early age. Yet Arlo, after that summer did not want to be a farmer. But like me the experience freed him to pursue meaningful work of his own shaping.
I hope your choices have worked out as well for you, and I would love to hear your stories of growing up and of growing old.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)