Remembering My Dad

Childhood images and memories of my father cascade like a kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and designs. Years serve as a prism and now at my age, like a child peering into the kaleidoscope, a momentary fusion of abstractions, streams of brilliance, opaqueness, symmetry, and distortion are glimpsed through the lens of time. Images changing within a flash with each movement. My Dad’s birth name was John Wesley Day. I knew him as Daddy. He was of medium stature, athletic build, perhaps 5’9 or 5’10, and about 170 lbs. I noticed over the years while growing up, that his weight appeared to remain stable – I think because he was so active.   My Dad was what some Black people call “light-skinned” and White folks in the old days called “colored.” He was a clean-cut gent, even when many of his jobs and activities did not demand dressing in any refined manner. My Dad never drew attention to matters of color or the fact that he had black wavy hair. I remember the security I felt when my Dad was at home during my early years as a tot and young boy. His work and schedule were at the center of my Dad’s life. My earliest recollections are of him coming home to the first house we owned – a small, two-bedroom bungalow with a front and back yard, nicely landscaped with lawns and a cherry tree in the back yard. I was in awe of his hard hat, goggles, and metatarsal shoes – all standard gear for his daily job as a class-A welder at American Steel Company in my hometown, East Chicago, Indiana. Like most rust-belt towns in the Midwest, East Chicago was known as a “melting pot,” with many races, ethnicities, and nationalities. The steel industry was by far the largest employer. Other industries were supported by Big Steel – like rail transportation and the cement and construction industries. My Dad’s goggles and hard hat were the tools and gear needed to protect him as a welder. His job involved seaming together rail parts, connecting the moving mechanical components of a box car’s flatbed, from engines to cabooses. The goggles shielded his eyes from the high-velocity pressure of the welding torch, with surging sparks flying from steel being bonded with steel. My younger brother, Larry, and I thought the goggles and hardhat were cool, but we learned quickly their importance as tools and not toys. We’d laugh at how Dad looked like a cartoon to us when he removed his welding goggles and the soot and debris from the steel mill encircling his eyes. But after a hot bath, he was always as good as new! I thought my Dad could do almost anything. When class demonstration (“show ‘n tell”) time came around in school, I was always excited to see what project Dad would help me develop. As a third grader, I recall going to the lumber yard with him, where he picked up an empty nail keg. It was a wooden barrel, shaped like a conga drum, but had no top or lid to its rough exterior. He purchased paint and a bunch of #2 and #3 sandpaper blots to add to his large tool kit at home. We spent an entire weekend sanding and smoothing the outside of the keg. Later we stretched a canvas, which was a patch of painter’s drop cloth, wet it, waxed it down, and tightly secured it with special tacks to serve as the drumhead’s surface. Finally, he helped me paint the drum a decorative red, yellow, and green design. That drum was half my size! But I managed to carry it to class, since we lived directly across the street from Columbus Elementary School. When I entered, my third-grade teacher Ms. Comer’s classroom, my classmates were in awe. I was proud that day. Whether it was high-flying box kites made from old newspapers to sail in the windy March East Chicago skies, or tall stilts made of 2×4’s that elevated a third grader from four feet to six-and-a-half feet tall, or whether playing catch or – one of my favorites – shooting marbles in the sandbox he’d created in our back yard, my Dad could come up with interesting projects! Like most Dads, he wore many hats. If any project required him to master or improve upon skill sets needed for the task, he managed to find the sources or experts from whom he could learn. Education was important to him. Although I later learned he had only finished half of 11th grade, it seems he had gotten a good foundation attending a segregated elementary Catholic school in Phoenix City, Alabama, where the students were disciplined to require the fundamentals of reading, writing, and mathematics. I never questioned or understood why he didn’t complete high school, being so close. In later years, he’d opine how his father, Henry Day, at the last moment disrupted his opportunity to attend college. The most memorable moments for me as a young boy with my Dad were our times together fishing at the Lake Michigan Pier in the Indiana Harbor near sunset. We’d prepare the night before by digging up nightcrawlers for bait to use the next evening. Our walk to the Lake shore was about one and a half to two miles. We would stroll with our rods and reels, tackle box and bait, to the Pier, which extended far out from the shore, just the two of us and a few single fishermen casing for lake perch off the Pier. From that perspective, Lake Michigan appears more of a blue-green ocean in the middle of the land, more so than a large connected system of five fresh-water lakes centered in the nation’s Midwest. I vividly recall the magnificent sunsets and unending sky and water converging, conjuring images of a sense of endless peace and stillness, only punctuated by occasional seagulls screeching and scouring the shallows for minnows and small fish. We always caught some fish – a boyish thrill that never grows old. We’d release a few and string the larger lake perch for the night’s meal. The walk home was gratifying. My Mom always struck me as being mildly ambiguous about our success, especially when she was expected to gut and clean and fry the fish! Oh yes, fried fish back in the day was not a breach of healthy eating habits – it was commonplace and quite tasty. As family, both Mom and Dad enjoyed taking us kids on long Sunday evening drives. These excursions provided opportunities for seeing sights in other towns as we’d drive through different neighborhoods, engaging in lots of family inter-play with communications like, “Are we there yet?” and “who ate my last White Castle hamburger?” (That was then the go-to fast food, pre-dating McDonalds.) Early years with my Dad meant family time. As our family began to grow up, the demands of work and ensuring there was the means to raise three young boys and a little girl perhaps demanded a change. Dad was an active, energetic fellow – he didn’t have a lazy bone in his body. My brother, Kirk, the youngest of his sons, recently informed me that he (Kirk) had recently had to demolish the garage my Dad had built on the lot of the house he had purchased, in which we had lived a few years. We lamented the loss of this symbol of our Dad’s steadfastness. He had built that garage over 70 years ago nearly single-handedly, from the foundation to the roofing, and even the electrical wiring. Leonard Watkins, a student and aspiring engineer, was allowed to use part of that garage to repair television sets and radios in the neighborhood. In classic fashion, my Dad had taken out his books at night to learn how to help him. Later, at my Dad’s funeral service in September 1992, Leonard, who became an electrical engineer, paid homage to my father, mentioning how he had helped him set up the shop in his garage to gain valuable skills that he would build upon to become an aerospace engineer working for a company that supported the NASA Space Program. (He is now retired.) Next to the garage was a smaller construction – a wood and coal shed, essential to storing the energy sources for our first small home. An essential daily after-school chore that fell upon me from third to fifth grade during the Chicagoland’s blistering winters and had to be completed before my Dad returned home, was to empty the ash pan from the coal-burning stove, go into the shed, and fill each of two pails, one with wood, one with coal, and drag them back to the house 20 yards away and place them in the pantry. When Dad got home, he would stoke the stove, place wood kindling and pieces of coal, and fan the flames to make sure that the coals were hot enough to keep the house warm. My Mom had a four-year-old girl – my sister Janice – and a toddler, Kirk, that made such a task too dangerous and unthinkable for a young mother. My job was to help ensure that we stayed warm! The stove was soon replaced with a more modern gas appliance. If my Dad could have been two places at one time, I have no doubt that he would have fetched the coal, chopped and toted the wood, and cleaned and emptied the ash, but during this period, as the oldest child, I was needed to help both my Mom and Dad. There were challenging times for sure. The work of providing for a growing family increasingly seemed to limit our recreational and family time together. Dad had learned to be a master barber by working with his uncle at an early age and had earned his barber’s license. Uncle Lee owned one of the few Black barber shops in town. As a licensed barber, Dad worked in the shop on weekends and any other days when there was time. In fact, when I was born, my Uncle Mike, Mom’s brother, ran to the Smith Barbershop to let Dad know that Mom had been taken to St. Catherine’s hospital to give birth to me. There was a time when the steel industry was the lifeblood of our nation’s economy. However, there was one over-looming reality. The wage-based economy of Big Steel precipitated a number of strikes within the steel industry. Long layoffs became almost endemic, with struggles between Union and Management for better wages and working conditions. When American Steel Mill went out on strike for the third time in nearly as many years, the last strike proved a lengthy, costly, and devastating period for many families. That was in 1959. Up until that time, the political parties had been evenly distributed between Republicans and Democrats. My Dad had run for GOP Precinct Committee-man but was defeated. He had been involved with coaching teen basketball leagues and was personable and had made some friends and allies. When the opportunity to work as a maintenance employee in the East Chicago Schools City, he saw it as a route to year-round job security, a pension, and good benefits that he thought he needed to secure a steady income for his family of five. And he was assured that he’d be a part of the mechanical and operations team – but that was a promise that was never fulfilled. So in the ensuing next 30 years, my Dad worked two jobs; School Custodian and Head of Night Security at St. Catherine’s Hospital. He also started his own business – a catering and butler service for private affairs. He worked for many CEOs and steel executives at their business functions. He hired me to help. I could see that Dad was well-liked and personable and I was impressed that he was one of ABC news anchor Frank Reynolds’ favorite caterers. I worked with Dad in his business until I accidentally popped a champagne cork that landed in a lady’s bosom! I knew better because he had taught me properly to open a champagne bottle, so he bid me farewell. I gave him my white jacket and my bow tie…he did take me home, though! My Dad for me, and those who really knew him, recognized that he was far more than the sum total of the jobs that he was compelled to take. His jovial disposition and love of family and people was genuine. He was intelligent, a quick study, and possessed a wide berth of skills. Had he lived in another era, no doubt he would have been easily drafted as a skilled maintenance supervisor with upper mobility opportunities. But he was never bitter, nor did he make excuses. His inspiration seemed derived from seeing his children and grandchildren grow strong, healthy, and successful. Folks who knew my Dad in Alabama told legendary stories of his exploits on the baseball field as a catcher for the Columbus Knights, a feeder team to the old Negro Leagues Birmingham Black Barons. He had even gotten to barnstorm with the Barons one Spring. My fondest memory as a kid was watching him hit a ball so far that I thought it had gone to Heaven! During his eulogy in September 1992, I was flushed with pride and sadness over what my Dad had accomplished and all that he could have achieved, simply by remaining himself, which was striving always to be excellent at whatever task he performed or challenge he faced. He was by no means perfect. We had our clashes and ups and downs, but he was there for me and all of his children, and he touched many lives and left an example of hard work, good character, and loyalty to his family and friends. Below is PAT HARVEY’S Father’s Day Tribute to my Dad from 5 /17 /13: GOOD JOB.AND WELL DESERVED!!! CONGRATULATIONS!!! You need to know this too about your dad! When MY son (who is now 36!!) was only 3 years old…Mr. Day became his “riding buddy” up and down the street (HIS house on Melville) was Baron’s LIMIT!!! “Not passed Mr. Day’s house” was my daily mantra!! WELL Mr. Day became his “best friend” as they sat and “talked” and carried on their “breaks”. Him on his bike and Baron on his BIGWHEEL!!! (I’ll never know how Mr. Day had the PATIENCE to ride slowly and “hang” with my little boy:) Well one day he came in the store looking SO EXCITED and happy while “his buddy” sat outside on his big bike waiting for him to come back out after telling ME THAT THEY WENT ALL THE WAY AROUND THE BLOCK TOGETHER!!! I looked outside at Mr. Day and they BOTH LOOKED THE SAME AGE…like “sheepish little boys”!!! WHAT COULD I SAY? Only that he could ONLY DO THAT WITH MR. DAY!!!:) THAT was the beginning of my little boy’s road to becoming a man!! Years later he would tell me about ALL THE ADVICE he received FROM YOUR DAD REGARDING EDUCATION and becoming a MAN!!!! I can close my eyes and “see” Mr. Day sitting outside in front of the store on his bike patiently ….waiting for Baron to come join him on their excursions “all the way around the block” When Baron went to Head Start out at the center Mr. Day would ask him about his homework and what he had learned that day etc….by NOW they had advanced to riding out in the park etc.!!! I will never EVER forget Mr. John Day…he was a REAL MAN to his own AND to MY (AND I’m sure…other) young MEN!!! You all were SOOOOO VERY FORTUNATE to have grown up and be nurtured by REAL MEN IN NEWADDITION. INDIANA!!!! RIP Mr. Day and THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH!!! WEEEE will NEVER FORGET YOU!!!