Hugh Neeld: The Curmudgeon Report

Father’s Day always creates mixed emotions in me—sadness that I never had the kind of relationship with my dad that fit the popular notion of that time, and guilt for not trying harder to make it work. As I got older, I realized that the family relationships portrayed in the movies was not the norm, and felt better about my situation.

I thought maybe, in recognition of this day that we honor fathers, I could come up with at least one anecdote that would show mine in a good light. Guess what? I came up with more than I have room for in a column.

I was born in Fort Worth in 1929, the same year the depression began. My dad, among the few who had a job, was a railway postal clerk. My brother, Carl, was born in December, 1931. In the early thirties, the roughest part of the depression, there was not a Christmas that Carl and I didn’t have toys, a definite luxury in that era. I, also, remember how, from a meager salary, Dad supported friends and relatives. Lack of generosity was not one of his shortcomings.

By 1937, Dad was off the road and in the main post office downtown. One of the top matinee idols of the day was Fred Astaire. Dad felt that, with instruction, I could succeed him and made the necessary sacrifices to afford lessons and tap shoes. I can still do the basic tap step; hop, shuffle, ball, chain. I do it sometimes when I’m alone.

My mom was the disciplinarian in our family, a role she accepted without joy. The favored mode was whipping with a switch cut from a hedge. For years, I thought hedges were the main criteria in selecting a home. The one and only time that Dad was asked to administer the punishment, we faked it in the garage. I handled my part of the charade so well, Mom never asked him again.

When we moved to a new part of town, I had a showdown with the neighborhood bully, who sent me into the house crying. This was unacceptable behavior to Dad, who sent me back out to do battle. I was scared of the bully, but more scared of Dad. I won. The bully became a friend, and another lesson was learned.

On a Sunday drive, Dad took us to Meachum Field to watch the airplanes take off and land. On the door of a hanger was a sign: AIRPLANE RIDES $2. Carl wasn’t keen on going, but I pleaded. The plane was a bright yellow Piper Cub. We took off, did a big circle over the city, and landed. My first airplane ride. What a thrill.

In high school, like most teenage boys, I obsessed about going into the service. Over my parents' protests and pleading, I joined the Navy in 1945. It was after I returned home that mom told me that dad had locked himself in the bathroom and cried the day I left.

Back home, one of the first things I wanted to do was buy a car. Dad insisted on going with me. I fell in love with a metallic green 1939 Packard sports coupe. Dad argued that it wasn’t practical and told me why. He had taken over the project without my realizing it. The car he favored was a black 1937 Ford coupe belonging to an individual. Dad looked under the hood and negotiated the price. It could not be compared to the Packard, but at Dad’s urging I bought it.

For the next few days I seethed with resentment. Dad asked, “What’s wrong?” one time too many, and I let loose. I told him it was my money and he had pressured me into foregoing the car I wanted for one I hated. He was speechless—unaware he was doing anything wrong.

Afterwards, without a word, he left in my car. When he returned three hours later, he handed me my money back. He had explained the whole, painful scenario to the seller. The guy felt so sorry for him he took the car back and refunded the money, and Dad rode the bus home.

The next day I bought my Packard. Two months later it threw a rod and ruined the motor block. I sold it to a junk car dealer and bought another car. Dad never said a word.

In November, 1960, after a prolonged battle with cancer, Dad died. The end came while I was there, for which I was grateful. I had already grieved, so the tears I shed were tears of relief.

Looking back from my vantage point today, it seems my life was riddled with instances in which Dad did small things—things that showed a caring heart, and for the most part, sacrifice.

So, for anyone who feels their father never lived up to their expectations, here’s some advice: Carefully review your life. Then jot down all the instances you can think of in which your dad stepped up to the plate, and did something you’re proud to remember. You’ll be surprised.

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A question to ponder:

Why is memory less about the truth than what we want it to be?

putterhugh@suddenlink.net

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Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.

Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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