Remembering My Father

Fiorella's father was a hard worker out of necesssity. When he was thirteen months old, his father was killed in a coal mine accident, leaving his mother to support their three children. Times were tough until she and one of her sisters got the contract to clean the schoolhouse. Of course, Dad and his brother and sister were expected to help. One of Dad's most poignant memories was looking out the window while he was sweeping the floor and seeing the other children at play.

As he grew up, Dad picked up odd jobs around the neighborhood, like killing chickens and herding cattle down to the river and back. And after graduating from high school, he took the inevitable bus ride from Osceola Mills to Akron and scored a job with General Tire, eventually becoming a foreman, then being sent to Waco, Texas, to head up the biggest department in the plant.

Dad played as hard as he worked. A born athelete, he played basefball and football in high school, added golf, tennis and bowling when he hit Akron, and, in Waco, established a company golf league and bowling league. Fio remembers the rows of sports trophies lining the garage shelves.

But best of all, Dad was a sweet father. His eyes glowed with warmth when he looked at his children, and Fiorella always knew that she was loved.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Rest in peace. May you bowl 300 in heaven.

Fio's First Home Run

Fio encountered softball for the first time when when she was seven and her family moved from Ohio to Texas.  At Ellet Elementary, recess had meant running around and playing on the swings, see-saws, sliding board, monkey bars, or jungle gym. Recess at North Waco Elementary meant being sent out to the barren school grounds with a bat and ball (or, according to season, a kickball or a jump rope).
Needless to say, Fio panicked when a softball--or any ball--whizzed toward her.

Well into junior high, she couldn't hit, although she always tried, so when the her father's department at General Tire held a picnic and  set up a softball game, she lined up to participate. The pitcher gave her a long, slow ball, virtually aiming at her bat--what else do you do for the boss's daughter--and SHE GOT A HIT!
 
Maybe it was the feel of the bat thwacking the ball, or maybe it was that the slow pitch had given her a moment to think about what she was doing, but from then on,she was a reliable playground batter.

We'll save the story of how she learned to catch for another day.

Dad

My father was a self-made man.  When he was thirteen months old, his own father died in a coal mine accident.  The county tried to take my father and his two siblings, but his mother worked in other people's homes to support them.  In fact, the whole family worked--my father herded a family friend's cattle to and from the pasture and cut off chicken's heads for neighbors.

Dad was a good-looking guy and popular in school.  His nickname was "Buddy," he excelled in sports, and was elected president of his senior class.

His first job, with General Tire, lasted almost forty years, and he founded a company golf league and bowling league on the side.  He advanced to become the manager of the largest department in the Waco plant, won several sports trophies, and enjoyed his retirement.

But, most of all, he was a loving, caring father.