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He was a good man. Just a good man. Not a famous man or a great man or a man that you would think of as particularly special. He wasn't well schooled or exceptionally bright or amazingly gifted. He was just a regular guy. One of those salt of the earth midwestern folks who worked hard and accepted life as it came and who loved his wife and four kids and taught them the faith not so much with words as with actions. He was a good provider and always nodded and said hello with a 'hey, how are ya' grin' and he would tease the waitress down at the diner whenever he stopped in for coffee while hauling gravel back in the small towns of South Dakota. He was fun that way. A gentle teaser who loved everybody. And he loved working with his hands. He made windmills and whirlygigs out of scraps of aluminum and he would have been considered an artist if he had lived in a different place or a different time. He didn't consider the things he made 'art'. It was just stuff he made out of scraps he found and collected in the shop. He gave what he made to friends and family and donated some stuff to the Christian school auction where he hoped they would get a little money for it to 'help the kids'. His wife died of cancer back in South Dakota. It was devastating to him. He was alone and lonely and he needed someone to care for him. He needed a wife. So he moved to Phoenix and ended up marrying Mom. Mom had been single for a long time and he had also spent a few years living on his own so it was a bit of a rocky beginning, but they worked it out. She ironed his shirts and cooked his meals and he brought home a steady paycheck. It was a second marriage. They are not the same as first marriages. It is a different kind of love, but it is still love. Real love. He not only loved Mom, he loved her kids and grandkids. He treated her family as his family. We would go over to the house after Sunday worship and have dinner as a family. After dinner we would shoot caroms and he would let the boys win. Beating grandpa at caroms was a big deal. Lots of big smiles. None bigger than Herm's.
I'm not very good with my hands. If things break in my house they stay broke. My boys would save up the broken toys and bring them to grandpa Herm because grandpa 'could fix anything'. He would tease them and hug them and toss a ball to them and take them out to the shed and fix their stuff. He was a good grandpa. When he got tired he would sit in his chair and work the 'find the hidden words' puzzles. The boys would crawl up on his lap and search for them too. "There's one, grandpa!" they'd shout. "Shucks," he'd respond, "you got it before I did." More proud grins.
As he got older he started getting a bit forgetful. He'd repeat his stories. Sometimes he had trouble remembering a name. Even our names. He had long retired, but he drove everyday to Rod's Carburetor Repair where he would scrub carburetors and do odd jobs and make deliveries. He loved working. He loved showing those young kids how to put in a day's work. But he started having fender benders and other accidents and eventually he had to quit. When you are in your 80's you should quit. He quit cleaning carburetors, but he went out to his shed everyday and made whirlygigs. It was a hard day when we sat and talked with him about taking his van away and also talked about what he hoped to have happen as he grew old and was no longer able to care for himself or have my mother be able to care for him. He said he had always wanted to go to the 'old folks home' in Corsica when that day came. His kids and us kids prayed he would get the desire of his heart. While visiting his kids a couple years ago, he slipped on a step and ruptured his spleen and broke some ribs. It took a long time to recover back in the midwest and he was moved to the old folks home in Corsica for his recovery. While his body mended the mind continued to fade. Most times when we called he didn't recall who we were. As with all dementia patients, there were good days and bad days. On a pilgrimage to visit him a couple years ago, I caught him on a good day. Or at least a brief good moment in a regular day. In that brief moment when he called me by name and while his eyes were bright, I thanked him for loving my mother and for providing for her so well. I thanked him for being grandpa to my boys and thanked him for being a good step dad to me. He told me he loved me and loved Mom and loved my boys and that he was sad to be in the nursing home and wished he could see us all again and then his eyes went blank and a few moments later he asked the nurse who I was. But it was a sweet moment that I will long cherish. I knew it was the last time we would see each other here.
My step father, Herm, died at 4:30 this morning. He was 87 years old last Friday. He enjoyed a long life. He had stopped eating a while back and had told the staff at the nursing home that he wasn't eating because he was waiting to eat with Jesus. A few days later he started eating again and told folks it wasn't time to go yet. Today God brought him home to a great Banquet. It is hard for Mom to have two husbands go before her. It is hard for some boys and girls who called him grandpa. It is hard for me, too. He was a good man.
Rod |
