Father's Day Tribute

An Everyday Guy
A Tribute to the Memory of My Father

I thought writing an essay about my father for “Father’s Day “would be an easy task. However, sitting at my laptop, the words didn’t roll onto the blank page like I thought they would. Staring at the faded black and white photos from the 1950s in the family photo album, I tried to remember the joyful moments my father and I shared.

My father, Harold Elleson, was the oldest and only son in his family. He became a survivor at the age of 19 when his father, a locomotive fireman for the Omaha railroad was killed—scalded to death—in a train accident on August 6, 1937. The local paper, “The Spooner Advocate” called the wreck “One of the Worst in the History of This Division of Omaha Road.” With the tragic loss of his 43 year-old father my dad became the primary provider for his mother and two younger sisters. The railroad company compensated the family by guaranteeing my father a permanent job with the railroad. During World War II my father wanted to enlist, but was deferred because he was the main financial support for his family. After completing his apprenticeship to become a machinist, he began repairing locomotives on the Chicago Northwestern railroad in a dingy roundhouse in Minneapolis— not exactly a “dream job.”

In 1944, a justice of the peace united my parents in holy matrimony, and in1945 my brother Tom was born. A couple years later, I arrived unexpectedly when my mother—startled by a bird—fell and broke her leg. Tucked in an incubator at the hospital for several weeks, I depended on my father’s daily “milk delivery.” I guess those daily visits bonded us in a special way. I loved spending time with my dad. When he worked nights at the roundhouse, I forced myself to stay awake until he arrived home and kissed me good night. I loved it when we snuggled in his favorite rocking chair together and he read Golden Books to me, “Circus Time” about a father and his daughter spending the day at the circus was my absolute favorite. Even though he seldom said he “loved” me, I knew he did. Sometimes when he arrived home he’d give me a gentle whisker rub and let me eat the cookies left over in his lunch box. When he didn’t have to work a double shift, he even sat through my dance recitals. At my first recital when I was four, he smiled when he saw me dressed in my “onion” costume dancing to the song, “I’m A Lonely Little Petunia.” Obviously, I was part of the tiny ballerinas that made up the onion patch.

Dad wasn’t much of a travelin’ man. Our summer vacations consisted of trips to my grandparents’ farm during haying season or to my aunt’s rustic cabin in Hackensack, Minnesota. I loved sitting in the boat with my dad, the dragonflies buzzing around my head as I stared at the red and white bobber on the lake’s surface. My dad was so patient with me, even when I managed to get the fishing lure tangled in my shorts he gently untangled the hooks from the fabric.

 In 1955, when my younger brother was nine months old, we took our one and only family cross county trip to Alhambra, California to visit my dad’s mother. Spending endless hours in a hot car with no air conditioner, my mom and dad flipped “Lucky Strike” cigarette ashes out the vent windows as we watched the roadside “Burma Shave” signs fly by and listened to whatever station my dad could find on the radio. After a stressful week in California traffic and fed up with visiting all the distant relatives, Dad’s patience maxed out and he packed us back in the car. Driving all night through the desert and spending a couple of nights in cheap motels we arrived back in Minnesota. Sixty years have passed, but the “Yellow Rose of Texas” lyrics of the 1955 hit song that filled the car still linger in my mind.

Yes, my dad was quite the guy. He was dedicated to his family, a hard worker, a wonderful provider and a loving man. When my husband, John, and I married in 1972, my father with a very serious look on his face walked me down the aisle. At the reception, John said, “I’ll take good care of her.” My dad’s response, “You better.” What more could any daughter ask for?

Father’s Day is a tough day for me. I loved my father deeply. Every year when “JUNE” appears on the calendar, it’s a reminder of losing him at the age of 68, just days before Father’s Day in 1987. My mother died a year before my dad, a few days before Mother’s Day. Losing them a year apart was a huge loss. Wishing everyone a “Father’s Day” filled with family, love and wonderful memories. Carry those memories forward, they bring comfort.

For more information about my writing and books visit my website http://outskirtspress.com/snowangels or Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/author/dianedettmann