My Dad

As my Dad was dying, I wrote a poem of my impressions of his life. He was my hero. It went:

It’s hard to place the first memory of

someone who has always been there.

This giant man who could do everything –

who took your hand when you were little and

helped to show the way.

This gentle man who everyone likes,

and who seems to like everyone.

This patient man who met the obstacles of life and

lived with them:

Crushed arms, frozen feet, hearing loss, malaria attacks,

lost dreams . . .

Tomorrow was always a new day.

This loving man who never had any money,

but could always share his love, strength and support.

This family man who was there

for his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, wife and sons.
You were always there. My Hero, My Dad.

I love you for hitting me fly balls day after day while

the swing of the bat stressed your broken arms.

I love you for never placing expectations on me

while enjoying whatever successes I’ve had.

I love you for loving Mom --

for showing me the value of unconditional love.

I love you for defending me when I was 17 –

for showing me the real meaning of family –

I’ve never forgotten.
I love you for being my hero, my Dad.

I’ve watched you grow older, smaller and frailer, and

that was when I was 20.

I’ve watched you while

you’ve survived the challenges of retirement and

reveled in that life.

I’ve watched you glow in the long deserved acclaim and

honors for your service to your country --

Bronze Star, Purple Hearts,

respect from your WWII buddies.

I’ve watched you change, yet always be my hero, my Dad.

The time is now for us to say good-bye.
It’s hard, Dad.

It’s hard to place the first memory of someone

who has always been there.

You are forever in my memory.

You will always be My Hero, My Dad.

My earliest recollection of Dad was when I was 4 years old; probably because Dad was not with us for my first three years - he was in Europe fighting the Germans. Dad was this big man who was always gentle.

Here’s my recollection of Dad. This is for you, Brooke. Be proud of your grandfather. Tell your children that he was a wonderful man. He was my hero.

His Youth

All I know of Dad’s youth was stories told at family picnics. The Rinehart boys were the tough guys in town. That town was in south central Nebraska. Let’s just say that Polk, Nebraska wasn’t a big town. Owen, Dad, “Chick”, Ross, Glenn – these guys were people you did not want to cross. They had fun – maybe too much. Grandpa Rinehart lost his farm during the depression. From what I’ve heard, he lost his spirit as well as his fortune.

Mom

There was a dance hall/roller skating ring in Dannebrog, Nebraska called Treasure Isle. You roller skated around the outer edge of the dance floor and danced in the middle part. Roller skaters were not allowed on the dance floor. As a youth, Mom would make corsages and sell them to the couples as they went to Treasure Isle. Live bands played music while the youth of their day danced and roller skated. Lawrence Welk started his band at Treasure Isle. When Mom was seventeen, she went to Treasure Isle and met this interesting “older” man, Dad. According to Mom, she knew Dad was the one that first night. I don’t think the same was true for Dad. They started dating until Dad left for his adventure.

The Adventure Begins

When Dad was 20, he and a buddy caught a freight train heading west. They ended up in Oregon where they worked as lumberjacks in the forests of Oregon. Dad stayed in Oregon working for 2 ½ years. In February 1941, Dad was drafted into the National Guard. This was the first draft in preparation of the war. He was 23. Dad did his basic training at Fort Leavenworth. He was then sent to Robinson, Arkansas where he was moved from the National Guard to the Regular Army. During training in Arkansas, Dad came down with malaria. This would haunt dad’s health for the rest of his life.

Dad liked to tell the story of his best friend Pete's fear of snakes. Dad and a couple of other guys put a rope in Pete’s sleeping bag. When Pete had settled in for the night, the guys went outside the tent and pulled on the rope. Pete leaped out of his sleeping bag and ran to the edge of the base. Dad loved that story. We will hear more of this friend in the following paragraphs.

While in Arkansas, Pearl Harbor was attacked. In less than seven days, Dad’s Division was shipped to the west coast and strung out along the California coast guarding the beaches from a possible Japanese invasion.

While Dad was guarding Catalina Island, he became very ill from food poisoning. That was just the excuse for Mom to start her big adventure and move to California to “catch her man”. Dad didn’t have a chance. They were married October 5th, 1942. Mom and Dad’s army and Nebraska friends, Ardith and Doug Rudy, were the witnesses and best man and woman for this wedding. Doug was in Dad’s military company and Ardith was Mom’s best friend during this trying time and into the future.

The War

I was 16 when Dad told me of his experiences in WW2. We were sitting at the dining room table and Dad just started talking about the war. I was fascinated and afraid. Dad’s story was war with a capital W. Even at 16, I felt Dad’s pain. I knew that Dad had been in the war. I had no idea he had seen so much action. Ten years later, more than 25 years after the war, Dad was awarded the Bronze Star for his gallantry. He already had his 2 Purple Hearts. I wondered then if I could or would have to ever face such terror. How would I act? Would I be brave like Dad? I hoped so.

134th Infantry Regiment
In August of 1940 . . . the United States Congress

authorized President Roosevelt to mobilize the National Guard.

On December 23rd, 1940, the Nebraska National Guard,

134th Infantry Regiment, was inducted into federal service

and attached to the 35th Infantry Division.

On May 11th, 1944, after intensive training and state side service in California,

the 134th was sent to the European Theater-of-Operations.

After nearly a year-and-a-half of distinguished and decorated service

the Regiment was inactivated on November 20th, 1945.

Travel and Combat Dates:
En route to Europe........................ 11 May 44

Omaha Beach.................................. 5 July 44
Saint Lo......................................... 13 July 44
Mortain.......................................... 7 Aug 44
Montargis/Joignay...................... 22 Aug 44
Nancy............................................ 15 Sept 44
Attack against Saar.......................... 8 Nov 44
Battle of Ardennes........................... 28 Dec 44
Roer River................................... 26 Mar 45
Ruhr Pocket................................ 26 Mar 45
Advance to Elb River................... 13 Apr 45
Occupation Hannover................. 27 Apr 45
Occupation Koblenz................... 1 June 45
Camp Norfolk............................. 12 July 45
En route to US.............................. 5 Sept 45

Decorations:
Battle Stars................................................... 5

Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland,

Ardennes and Central Europe
Congressional Medal-of-Honor..................... 1
Distinguished Service Cross........................... 8
Silver Star................................................. 159
Legion of Merit............................................ 3
Soldiers Medal............................................... 6
Bronze Star............................................... 738

Casualties/Replacements
10,000(300%)

“It isn’t the cost of belonging.

It’s the price you paid to be eligible.”

Dad’s 134th Regiment-Company M, all from Nebraska, was shipped from California to North Carolina in the winter of 1943 where they prepared for the European invasion. On May 11, 1944 Dad boarded a ship for England. Less than one month later, June 7, 1944, Dad was in the 2nd wave landing on Omaha Beach. How fitting, the Nebraska battalion lands at Omaha. Dad took comfort in the fact his best friend, Pete from home, was in his boat as they waited for the landing craft to come to rest on a French beach. It was apparent that it was going to be simply fate if they could get out of this hell-hole. Shells going off all around -- men screaming – bullets buzzing over their heads -- chaos everywhere – landing craft sunk into the shallows smoking and burning.

The front of the landing craft drops and Dad and his platoon hit the water. As they struggle to the beach, the first impression is that the beach is covered with debris. It’s not debris. It’s dead GI’s. It’s Dad’s friends. It could be Dad in a minute or two. Dad has his BAR. He is crawling across the beach with bullets flying overhead when he turns to tell Pete to keep his head down. Only then did Dad notice that Pete’s head was slumped over to one side. Aside from the glassy-eyed stare that saw nothing, only a small bright red dimple square in the middle of Pete’s forehead betrayed his fate. Pete would never be afraid of snakes again. Though Dad was to see many other men die that day, that one particular loss struck Dad to his heart. Dad rolled Pete over and covered him with his poncho. He crawled on.

Dad cried at the dining-room table in that kitchen in Bettendorf, Iowa fifteen years after he had lost his best friend. It had only taken minutes after landing on the shores of France and Dad’s life had changed forever.

At that moment, Dad realized that no matter how good he was or how hard they had trained when “the Fate” decided that a man’s time was up, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Dad never said it, but upon reflection, this one instance changed my Dad’s life vision. Dad was no boy, wet behind the ears, when he road that landing craft to France. He was 27 years old. He was an old man compared to the vast majority of kids around him. He was married. He had a son. He had experienced life. He had adventures. This was different. This wasn’t life. This was death.

After struggling off that deadly beach, Dad formed up with his platoon and slowly started moving to the east. As his unit approached the outskirts of St. Lo, a mortar round exploded next to him. When he regained consciousness, he could not hear. He was bleeding from a wound to his forearm. His ears were bleeding. He was disoriented and absolutely alone. Where to go? Which way were the guys? As he wondered around the landscape, he came across two officers who were also lost. It seems the Americans had been pushed back toward the coast. As the band of three moved northwest, they heard machine gun fire ahead of them coming from a German bunker. They literally walked up to the back door and kicked it opened. Dad rushed in with his BAR firing. Dad said he thought it lasted 5 minutes, but realized it was only a few seconds and all within this bunker were dead. It seems that this bunker was stopping the entire move toward St. Lo. As a result of this action, Dad was recommended for a Silver Star. He was given a field promotion to Sergeant and sent back to England to recover from his wound. The rest and recovery (R&R) in England was of more importance to Dad than the commendation.

A newspaper article that Mom had in a scrapbook tells about one of the decoration ceremonies held after this battle. “A handful of American soldiers, several of them Nebraskans who fought through one of the most vicious battles in the allied break-through from the Normandy beach head, stood in a rain swept square in a little French town a few days ago to receive decorations of a grateful government. Altogether there were only 21 Yanks present out of the 120 in the outfit cited for valor in the savage battle of Saint Lo,” according to Marcell Wallenstein, war correspondent for the Kansas City Star.

“They were the only ones of the 120 able to stand on their feet. The others were in hospitals, or dead.”

“No better crowd ever took up arms”, Wallenstein cabled. “The 21 stood in sodden raincoats and steel helmets, most of which have been pierced by enemy bullets, and as such, most valuable pieces of headgear to the owners.” He described the St. Lo contest “as savage a combat as any in American history.”

After recovering from the wound, Dad was sent back to his unit. Upon joining his unit, he found that he was the last living member of his original platoon. His life was again in jeopardy as his unit prepared for the Battle of Nancy. Dad didn’t have much to say of this Battle other than he was in it.

Dad spent the rest of September and October trekking north through France. In mid-October, Patton’s column passes Dad’s doughboys. They strip Dad’s unit of their winter gear using the logic that they are outrunning their supply lines to get to the Rhine and Dad’s unit would be able to resupply as they moved forward. This was not to happen.

From December 16, 1944 to January 28, 1945 the “Battle of the Bulge”, the Ardennes Offensive, is waged. Dad’s unit -- with summer clothing only -- fight an enemy that is desperate for a win. Dad’s squad is caught in a creek bed up to their ankles in freezing water. They are fighting an enemy that seems to be all around them. For four days, they hold their own. By the time they are relieved, Company M has fought in another savage battle with heavy losses. Dad survived, but his feet were frozen. The war was over for Dad. He was shipped to England and then to Galesburg, IL where the doctors fought to save his feet. They were successful, but Dad’s feet would bother him the rest of his life.

In 1973, Nancy and I traveled with Mom and Dad to Dad’s 30-year reunion of the 134th Regiment. Dad was awarded the Bronze Medal at this reunion. It was only 29 years late and one level down from the commendation. It seems that with time your award diminishes. This is the Army. Dad was not bothered by this “demotion”. He was proud that they finally recognized him. That was Dad.

Dad’s Medals:

1) Bronze Star Medal

2) Good Conduct Medal

3) American Defense Service Medal

4) American Campaign Medal

5) European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal & Bronze Star Attachment

6) World War II Victory Medal

7) Combat Infantry Badge 1st Award

8) Honorable Service Lapel Button WWII

9) Expert Badge & Machine Gun Bar

10) Sharpshooter Badge & Rifle Bar


Nebraska

After Dad recovered in Galesburg, Illinois from his frozen feet, the family relocated to Grand Island, Nebraska. Dad’s first job was as a baker. Mom loved to tell the story of the time a woman came into the bakery complaining that a fly was found in a loaf of bread she had bought at the store. Dad said that it wasn’t a fly. It was a raisin. He took the fly and put it in his mouth and swallowed it to prove that it was a raisin. The women accepted this answer since she no longer had the fly and left. Dad rushed into the restroom and barfed.

Dad then started a two year electrical apprenticeship. After the first year, the electrician Dad was working for went out of business. Rodney was just born. No job. What to do next?

We lived in a basement apartment across the street from the town park. It wasn’t big, but it was big enough for the three of us. It was not big enough for the four of us. The decision was whether we move back to Dannebrog where Mom’s family could help or move to Davenport, Iowa where Dad’s family had relocated.

Mom and Dad decided that we would move to Iowa. There were better jobs in Iowa since the jobs were scarce in Grand Island. We packed the family into our 1942 green Dodge and drove from Grand Island to Davenport, Iowa. Mom tells the story that during this drive the brakes went out on the car. Since we did not have money to get them fixed, Dad drove from Omaha to Davenport without brakes. He used the curb along the side of the road to slow us down and the emergency brake to stop. Thank goodness the highways, then, all had curbs.

Iowa

When we first arrived in Iowa, we stayed in an extra room as Chick and Margaret’s house, Dad’s brother and sister-in-law. We then rented a 3-room house without bath (outhouse was about 20 yards behind the house) on the west side of Davenport. This little house was part of a tomato farm (1 section of land). Dad worked on the farm in the evenings and on the weekends to help pay the rent. During the week, Dad was a painter at JI Case in Bettendorf.

For me, these were wonderful times. I played in the fields and woods of the farm. We grew popcorn and rhubarb beside the outhouse. When I started school, it was in a 3-room school house with K-1 in one room, 2-4 in the next room and 5-6 in the largest room. I would walk to school (about ½ mile from the farm). I think about this now and that was pretty risky. A 5-7 year old walking ½ mile along a “busy” road wouldn’t happen today. It did then.

Dad was a member of the Isaak Walton League. I remember one evening Dad came home and he had won a shot gun at the meeting. He told me then that this would be my gun. He would teach me how to use it. We would hunt together. We never did hunt together. Years later I would use this gun to hunt the fields of Iowa for pheasant and rabbit. Dad was so proud of that gun.

We attended Grace Methodist Church in the west-end of Davenport. I loved sitting in the church and singing the hymns. Holy, Holy, Holy was a hymn we sang every Sunday during the processional. Today it is still my favorite hymn.

Between my first and second grade, we moved from Davenport to Bettendorf. We lived on 30th street in Bettendorf in the first of 6 converted army barracks. We had indoor plumbing and four rooms. Rod and I shared the back bedroom with bunk beds.

The year after we moved to Bettendorf our lives would change forever as a family.

It was fall. I was attending Lincoln Grade School. I’m in second grade. I remember playing in the playground at recess and hearing the siren go off at JI Case. It was unusual because this normally happened only at noon. It wasn’t noon. A few hours later a man came to our class room with the Principal. My name was called. The man said that my dad had had an accident and that I was to go with him to my house. When we got home, mom was crying. Dad had fallen from the roof of JI Case and was at the hospital. Mom thought he was dying. Grandma Rinehart came to the house and mom left for the hospital. I had no idea what to do. Rodney was 3 or 4 and mom said I had to be a big boy and take care of him while she was gone. What is a big boy to do when his dad is dying? I had no idea. To this day, when I think about that day, I cry.

Dad didn’t die, but he was broken. He would never go hunting again. Dad was painting the exterior second story windows of one of the factory buildings at Case. It had rained that morning and the roof was wet. Dad had thought it was too wet but his foreman insisted that these windows needed to be painted so up dad went. While painting dad’s foot slipped and he started to slide down the roof on his butt. When he reached the bottom of the roof he put his feet in the gutter to stop his slide. Good idea, bad outcome. The gutter gave under his weight and Dad flipped over and fell head first 20 feet toward the ground. In that short time while dad was airborne, he had the presence of mind or maybe it was just a natural reaction to cover his head with his arms. This probably saved his life, but it doomed his hands and arms. Once dad hit the ground, the paint followed and covered him in paint. By this time, I’m sure that Dad was unconscious. At the hospital, after cleaning the paint off Dad (I remember the first time I saw Dad about a week after the accident – he still had paint in his hair), the exam revealed that he had crushed both arms and hands, he’d broken his collar bone and he had a severe concussion. Dad never did recover the memory of the fall.

Dad had more than 100 breaks in his arms. Both hands were crushed to the point that they had to piece them together around a spike in each hand. They removed his tibia from his left arm and he lost both elbows. Upon dad gaining consciousness, the doctor asked dad’s permission to remove both arms (that means cut off both arms at the elbow). Dad’s response was typical Dad. He said, “I fought 2 years in Europe. I’ve been wounded -- twice. I’ve had my feet frozen. You are NOT going to cut off my arms. You figure out another way to fix me!” So they did.

Dad was sent to the University of Iowa’s Medical facilities in Iowa City. The same doctor that operated on Arthur Godfrey (this was a big deal to both Mom and Dad) performed the surgery to piece Dad’s body back together. The next year Dad spent in rehab and recovery. It was a long uphill battle to just get back to “fixed but broken”.

The next couple of years were very tough for our family. Grandma spent the days at our house taking care of Rodney and being home when I came home from school. Mom was given a job at JI Case while Dad recovered from his operations. The stress of the job was too much for Mom. She would come home from work and complain about the people she worked with, the work she had to do, how hard the work was, etc.

In the mean-time, Dad worked on his therapy. By my fifth-grade, Dad was able to go back to work – two hard years in therapy with only minor improvement in how his arms moved -- his hands were no longer pliable. They were stiff and would remain that way the rest of his life. They tried him at the assembly line, but that was too difficult for his mending hands. Dad then started as a guard working the grave-yard shift. JI Case settled with Dad for the accident in the middle of this year. Dad agreed to a $13,000 settlement freeing JI Case of all blame. This really wasn’t much for a life-time of pain and suffering. Even in fifth-grade, I thought Dad was selling himself short.

With the $13,000, Dad and Mom found a home for the family. It was at 1311 Devil’s Glenn Road. The house cost $12,500. It was a 2 bedroom, 1500 sq. foot concrete block home with a ½ basement but without a garage on 1 ½ acres at the edge of the Bettendorf City Limits. In fact, we were the last house in the city limits on Devil’s Glenn Road. Directly behind the house was the back side of Devil’s Glenn Park. On the north side of the house was the Tinker farmland normally planted in corn. Across the street on the west was a vacant lot that ran down to Duck Creek. Directly across the Creek was the Bettendorf Gun Club. Next to the Bettendorf Gun Club was our old home.

Thus we moved 4 blocks from our 30th street home as the crow flew. It was 1 mile by the streets. The 1 ½ acres were full of erosion cuts in the land. The home needed paint and loving care. The land needed more than that. It needed a landscaper. That was never going to happen. We were the right family for the job. The front yard had a large cotton wood tree and a very pretty weeping willow. The house sat in the back third of the property with a long drive way on the south side of the lot that ended behind the house.

Within a few months of moving into the house, Dad started working in the yard. His shovel and wheel barrow moved the property from one spot to another filling in the cuts in the ground. Dad said that this was good therapy for his arms. He was right, but it was a lot of hard work. When Dad started back at JI Case, Mom quit and started working at a furniture store in Davenport. This allowed her the chance to buy furniture at a discount. The job lasted only a year or so, but we were able to furnish our sparsely furnished home with a desk, dinning room set, kitchen table, draperies in the living and dinning rooms, and a sofa and living room tables.

I remember the first Christmas in our new home. Rodney and I found new “French racing bikes”, “Automoto” bikes, under the tree. This was a very good Christmas.

This was to be the home that both Rodney and I would grow up in. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t elegant. It was home.

Growing Up

During these growing up years, Dad worked the swing shift at JI Case as a night watchman. I started to discover that I was an athlete. Dad would go out to the back yard and hit me fly balls. For hours, he would hit me fly balls. I could hardly wait for Dad to get home so that he could hit me those flies. I didn’t realize then that this hurt Dad. The doctors had told Dad during his recovery that he should not over stress his arms. That wasn’t Dad. Over stressed? He was just hitting his son fly balls.

Dad, at Mom’s urging, started selling life insurance during the day. This was not Dad’s strong point. He was to nice. His hearing loss from the War interfered with his ability to hear his potential clients. I believe that the hearing loss also made Dad shy. Shy is not good for a salesman. Dad quit this work after a few years.

When I was in 6th grade, our church, Asbury Methodist in Bettendorf, started a building program to build a sanctuary. The Church bought property and the building began. Most of the work on this first phase of the building was done by volunteer labor. Dad rolled up his sleeves and worked weekends and most mornings (he was working second shift at this time). I know it hurt his arms, but he was there working every day. I went with dad on the weekends and helped carry cement block as the men built the outer walls of the building. I loved working with dad and remember with pride when we moved into our new facility. Dad and I helped to build this church.

When I was in High School, Dad coached Rodney’s Little League team. I was the assistant coach. I envied Rodney. When I was in Little League, Dad was recovering from his fall. He couldn’t coach my teams. Rod was a great Little Leaguer. He was a fearless catcher and played 2nd base. Dad coached for a couple of years then his job, swing shift, got in the way.

Dad had few chances when I was in high school to see me play basketball or football. I don’t remember Dad ever going to either my baseball games (high school or pony grad) or track meets. He was working the swing shift 3-11 and there just wasn’t the chance. I regret those missed opportunities. As I grew older and better, I would have liked to have Dad watch me. I think I made Dad proud. He never told me that though.

When I graduated from high school, I was planning on going to the University of Iowa to play football. I worked that summer at Alcoa and saved $1,200 for college. In August, Dad and I drove to Iowa City to attend a freshman orientation class. Dad and I met with Forest Eveshevski, Iowa’s football coach. The coach told Dad and I that he could not promise my making the team but I was invited to camp. We then went to the orientation. During this session, we were told that it would cost each freshman $3,000 to $4,000 per year over tuition and books. I had an ACT scholarship of $800 per year and I had saved $1,200 from working at Alcoa. Dad looked at me and said “It won’t work. We don’t have enough money.” We left the orientation and came home. I called Mr. Eveshevski the next day to tell him I wouldn’t be able to go to Iowa. I just did not have enough money. I then went to Alcoa and inquired if I could move from summer employee to full-time. Wow, it was 50 years ago and I still feel the pain, the total loss of “future”.

I don’t know how Dad felt. Times were tough then for Dad and Mom. Mom wasn’t working and Dad’s job really never paid enough to keep us from hand to mouth. While working at Alcoa, I paid the folks $50 a month to stay at home and I paid for Mom to take the “Famous Artists Studio” correspondence course to be an artist. It was during this next winter that Mom and Dad asked if I could loan them $1,000 to fix the furnace. I gave them the money. Dad hated the fact that his son had to loan him money. It was strange. I'm just out of high school working at Alcoa and I'm making more money than my dad who has worked for JI Case for 15 years. It really never got better for dad.

I worked the next year at Alcoa. By the next school year, I had saved $2,400, bought a car, 1956 Chevy convertible, and talked two of my friends into going to college in California. We left August, 1962. Going home was never the same.

Over the next few years, I came home for the summer to work at various factories. I stayed at home, but seldom stayed at home. After graduating from Palomar, I went home to wait for Army Basic training. This was in 1965-1966. The military was gearing up for Vietnam and all the Basic training units were full. Dad was still working as a guard. However, he now had enough seniority to work the day shift. After I left home, Dad bought a riding lawn mower, he added a garage onto the house. They sold the back ½ acre to finance these improvements. Rodney graduated from high school. I had to get back to California. I moved back to California the spring of 1966 and never returned except for 1-2 week visits.

Retirement

It was 1972 and Nancy, T and I went to Iowa for Christmas with the folks. Dad was 55 and considering retirement from JI Case. Dad and I sat down to figure out what Dad’s retirement pay would be from Case. After pushing the numbers, Dad was eligible for $560 per month from Case – no retirement here. This felt like my trip to the University of Iowa. Great plans, can’t afford it. Dad continued to work.

A few years later, Ling-Temco acquired JI Case and rolled their retirement plans onto the Case employees. Dad thought he was going to get a significant increase in retirement. When Dad was 62, the Company came to Dad and suggested that he take an early retirement. If he didn’t, they were going to lay Dad off. No decision here, Dad retired. Now for the good news: 1) JI Case recognized Dad’s loyal service of 32 years and gave Dad a $20,000 severance, 2) Case included insurance in the retirement package for both Dad and Mom, 3) Dad’s retirement had increased to $1,800 per month and this included Mom if Dad would die before Mom.

Mom and Dad went to Arkansas on a “free” weekend to look at retirement property in Horseshoe Bend, Arkansas. Mom was sold. The folks visited Arkansas a few more times in the next couple of months and found Mom’s "perfect" home. They then returned to Bettendorf and put their home up for sale. The sale wasn’t easy but it was done and the folks were off to Horseshoe Bend and their retirement.

The next 20 years were my folk’s best years of their married life. My mom became the artist she wanted to be. Although as the years past, she talked the game but did very little painting. Dad flourished. His retirement friends recognized dad’s military achievements. He was elected president of the Nebraska Club and Commander of the VFW. He used his wood working skills to make all the street signs for Horseshoe Bend. The folks retirement home was 2-3 times better than the Iowa house – corner lot, across the street from the lake, boat dock, great lake view. It was nice.

Although we offered, the folks only came to visit 3-4 times in the 20 years they lived in Horseshoe Bend. We were worse. I think we visited Horseshoe Bend only twice before dad died.

The End

The end for Dad came as a surprise to all of us. Mom was very sick -- prescription drug addiction and dementia. At that time, we thought Mom was on death’s doorstep. She was. She was holding the door open for Dad.

In August 1997, the folks called and said that Dad was not doing well. He had gone to his Doctor in Little Rock and they thought he had a brain tumor. They did not have an MRI machine in Little Rock at the time. I flew Dad and Mom out to San Diego to go to the San Diego VA Hospital where a friend was the head of Neurology. Dr. Randy Hawkins arranged for Dad to be admitted upon his arrival. A few days later, I met with Randy to review the results of the MRI of Dad’s head. It was not good. Dad had a glioplastoma the size of a hardball in the left side of his brain. It was pushing the brain material around. Randy told me that this was terminal. Dad had from 6 weeks to 6 months to live. He said they could operate, but it would do no good. At best, it would postpone the inevitable a few months. At worst, Dad would be a vegetable after the operation and would still die within a few months. It was up to me to tell Dad and Mom.

I can’t say that Dad and I were best friends. We were not. I can’t say that we hugged and loved each other openly. We did not. We loved each other. We just didn’t show it. I can’t remember my dad hugging me as I grew up. In later years, he hugged, but not when I was growing up. I believe that Dad admired and respected me as much as I did him. I cannot think of one instance where my Dad let me down. I questioned his spirit until I started to understand what it was like not being able to hear all the words spoken to you. It wasn’t that he ignored people. He just didn’t hear or understand them. Rather than make a fool of himself, he simply didn’t say anything. He was a quiet man.

Dad was so courageous in his last few months. I went into Dad’s room and told Mom and Dad what Randy had told me. Dad looked at me as Mom cried and said that “if it was his time, so be it.” He did not want to have the operation. There was no hand wringing, no crying, no “why me” – just “so be it.” It was Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary that day.

Dad was dying and it would be quick. The tumor inside Dad’s head was growing and it would kill him. Within a week after returning to our house, Dad lost his ability to speak. He was still able to carry on. He just could not talk. In the last few months of his life, his brother Ross flew out to California from Wisconsin to say good-bye. Dad really appreciated the visit and the gesture. Dad’s sister, Agnes, flew down from San Jose to visit with Dad. Even my cousin Madeline, whom I hadn’t seen since 1967, drove down from Pomona to visit with her parent’s, Ross and Ellen, and Dad. Tisha and Mark came down for a week to be with Dad. Mark kept Mom busy while Tisha, Brooke and Dad would sit quietly in the family room. Through it all, Dad would smile, point at his throat and signal that he couldn’t talk. He could listen and he did.

Dad was failing. In October, it was apparent that Dad needed care that neither Nancy, Mom nor I could provide. We moved Dad and Mom to a senior care facility in Encinitas. It was here that Dad moved slowly toward Thanksgiving.

Dad and I talked just after he was diagnosed with the Glioplastoma. We set a target of getting to Thanksgiving (it was September when we had this conversation). The day before Thanksgiving, Dad and I went to Moonlight Beach. He was wobbly but able to walk and nod as we walked along the beach. I talked about what we could do on Christmas. I read the Joshua Loth Liebman, “Peace of Mind” excerpt and we cried. That night, Dad had a seizure. He never recovered from this episode. He never regained consciousness. He died December 11, 1998, Rodney’s birthday, while under the care of the San Diego Hospice.

When Dad had his seizure, he was rushed to Scripps Encinitas Hospital. Over a period of 4 days in the Hospital, Nancy and I were becoming concerned about the quality of care at Scripps. We went to visit Dad. It was a Saturday evening. The nurses were struggling to change an IV in Dad’s arm. They were having trouble finding a vein that would work. After the fourth try without success, Nancy suggested that they call a Doctor to help. The Nurse said that Dad’s Doctor was not available. Nancy said, “Well, get another Doctor.” The nurse said that was not possible since Dad was assigned to a specific physician. Nancy said, “We didn’t pick this Doctor. He was assigned. If he can’t make himself available to help his patient, we’ll fire him and get a new Doctor.” The nurse could not believe what Nancy had just said. So, Nancy said, “The Doctor is fired. Get a new one!” With a smile on her face, the nurse called the emergency room Doctor who came up to Dad’s room and successfully inserted the IV. As we were walking out of the Hospital that night, a women came up to us and said she had observed our frustration. She wanted to know if we had considered the San Diego Hospice. If not, we should. It took Nancy and I all of 2 minutes to make the decision to have Dad transferred to the San Diego Hospice.

What a good decision. Scripps Encinitas Hospital was concerned with keeping Dad alive regardless the discomfort and pain this may cause. The San Diego Hospice was concerned with preparing Dad for death with the least amount of pain and discomfort. The Hospice was amazing in their care of Dad. The accommodations were like a luxury resort. The care was focused on keeping Dad comfortable and Mom calm. Both were needed.

On the morning of December 11, the hospice Doctor called me to say that Dad was recovering to the point that we may have to move him home. Within an hour of this conversation, the Hospice called again to say that Dad had died. Mom was with him. We drove down to San Diego to make arrangement for Dad’s move to the funeral home. As we were leaving the hospice, a Chaplain took me aside and said that he had heard that the Presidio did not have room for Dad and we were going to have to bury Dad in the National Cemetery in Riverside. He told me that Dad was a war hero and he deserved to be buried at the Presidio. He told me to simply go to the Presidio and tell them that "Dad had died and he should be buried there."

I got in the car and told the family that we were going to the Presidio. Upon arrival, Nancy and I walked into the small reception area and simply said that my Dad had just died. I told them that he was a World War II hero and I wanted to have him buried there. The woman behind the desk picked up a walkie-talkie and said, “Joe, do we have any vacant plots.” Joe called back after a few minutes and listed three different plot sites. The woman looked at me and said, “Not a problem.” Thus Dad ended up with a view lot next to the ocean.

The week after Dad’s death was filled with preparing for Dad’s funeral. We went to the Encinitas Funeral Parlor, the same place that buried Nancy’s Dad, to arrange the process. We would have the funeral at Calvary Lutheran Church then transport Dad to the Presidio for burial. The funeral home would arrange the ceremony. Dad would be buried with full military honors.

On the day of the funeral, it was raining. Mel Kieschnick conducted the funeral ceremony at Calvary. On the drive to Point Loma, it poured. The grave site ceremony was on the bay side of Point Loma overlooking the city of San Diego. It continued to rain during much of this ceremony. Just as the honor guard fired the 21 gun salute, the sky cleared and a full rainbow popped across the sky. It was spectacular and it was a fitting end. Brooke, my daughter, accepted the flag that was draped across Dad’s casket. Dad was buried in a field of crosses.

I often feel that death is not the enemy of life, but its friend for it is the knowledge that our years are limited that makes them so precious. It is the truth that time is but lent to us that makes us, at our best, look upon our years as a trust handed into our temporary keeping. We are like children privileged to spend a day in a great park, a park filled with many gardens and playgrounds and azure-tinted lakes with white boats sailing upon the tranquil waves.

True, the day allotted to each one of us is not the same length, in light, in beauty. Some children of earth are privileged to spend a long and sunlit day in the garden of the earth. For others the day is shorter, cloudier, and dusk descends more quickly as in winter’s tale. But whether our life is a long summery day or a shorter wintry afternoon, we know that inevitably there are storms and squalls, that overcast even the bluest heaven and there are sunlit rays that pierce the darkest autumn sky.

The day that we are privileged to spend in the great park of life is not the same for all human beings, but there is enough beauty and joy and gaiety in the hours if we will but treasure them. Then for each one of us the moment comes when the great nurse, death, takes man, the child, by the hand and quietly says, “It is time to go home. Night is coming. It is your bedtime, child of earth. Come; you’re tired. Lie down at least in the quiet of the nursery and sleep. Sleep well. The day is gone. Stars shine in the canopy of eternity.”

Joshua Loth Liebman, “Peace of Mind”

Dad, please take care of Tisha.

Someday we will all be together again.