Memorial Day Thoughts From the Patriarch

Something to Think About Remembering:

I don't feel patriarchal--other than a gradual slowdown, and a few aches and pains, I feel good, but I guess I am the patriarch.  My Mom died a few years ago, her parents a long time ago, and on that side I'm the oldest in my generation.  My Dad died when he was four years younger than I am.  His Dad died when he was a toddler, and his mom three decades ago.  I have two cousins older than me on Dad's side of the family, but they are both of the matronly persuasion, and I'm senior on Mom's side, so, though I'm sure my family could do better, I am the Patriarch.  They didn't get to vote. From my white topped perch I share a few memories on this Memorial Weekend. Grandpa Hargrove was a man who worked hard all his life.  I'm told that when he was just a boy he was already driving teams of mules.  Somebody has to break those famously stubborn hybrids to get them to respond to the "gee," "haw," & "whoa" commands.  Grandpa did that.  My mom shared a life-long fear of big animals, inspired, she said, by seeing her Dad come in with his head split open after a round with one of the ornery beasts.  I never saw him use it, but I remember seeing Grandpa's old bull-whip (in his case wouldn't it be a "mule-whip"?) hanging on the wall.  Grandpa was recognized as a man who was a "good hand with stock."  He died showing an Angus bull he had raised and trained.  It wasn't the bull that took him, it was a stroke.  I was told the big, black animal just stood there next to his fallen master.  Grandma married again, to a man named Mr. Rogers.  She outlived him as well. Dad's father died in a railroad accident in Arkansas.  My Dad and his two brothers were raised by a widowed mom, and an assortment of relatives, who it always sounded to me like, from the stories Dad told, weren't all that helpful.  My Dad, and his two brothers fought in World War 2.  Together with an uncle (husband of Mom's sister) they helped defeat the scourge of the mid-Twentieth Century.  Two of my Mom's brother's served in post-war Germany.  My Dad's oldest brother died in the fighting around Saint Lo one month after he came ashore at Utah Beach.  The middle brother suffered as a prisoner of war, eventually losing a lung and his eyesight.  He became an avid fisherman, gentleman farmer, lover of rabbit beagles, and, toward the end of his life, mastered the art of reupholstering furniture.  Dad tried farming, and a couple of other ventures after the War.  Like so many other Southern Boys, he moved north for work.  I was raised in the Suburbs of Chicago.   My family logged, worked on railroads, built tires,turned out rolled steel, help put men on the moon, worked the high-iron that became the Super Dome, fed a nation and helped save the world. Me?  I sit in my living room on this Memorial Weekend and reminisce.  I hope it will stir your memories in a worthwhile direction. It’s STTA. Read here to find out about the greatest blessing.