Memories (Continued)– My dad

My dad fought in WWII in N. Africa and Italy. He was drafted before he finished high school and was shipped overseas at the same age I was playing in the high school band and skipping school with my girlfriends. I can't imagine what that was like for him. His first letters home were so innocent sounding and naïve. He told his mom that he didn't think they were going to be shipped overseas. But, of course he was. We know that he fought in intense battles in Italy, in close quarters and had any number of personal kills. He would never talk about it but did one night when his captain visited. They talked late into the night, remembering their nightmares and letting my mom in on the action. He was blown out of fox holes and recovered his captain after he was dislodged; they were trapped behind enemy lines and killed an old goat before they starved to death, but then got dysentery from it; they were in close enough quarters when fighting that at one point he ran into building and took cover behind some boxes only to discover later that they were cardboard; he captured a German “instead of shooting him” and had him go behind a building and start digging his grave before his captain stopped him and fussed him out. His letters were kept and you could just feel as you read them how he changed over the years from a young boy to a hardened soldier. He was in the group that raided Mousilini's castle and we have a picture of him with the swords around his waist. He mailed them home but they never made it, of course. So, after the war he was told there was 2 ways to get back home. He could take a plane or go back by boat. He looked at the plane that was in sight of where he was standing and saw how it was shot full of holes and decided on the boat. He figured that he'd made it that far and didn't want to die going back home.

The Mulkeys are a happy bunch of people. You come to our reunion and you'll see for yourself. Someone is always telling a story and somebody's always laughing. We love practical jokes, just plain jokes and any story that will get a laugh. My dad was like that too. He was always doing something or saying something that made people laugh. On many, many mornings at breakfast he would sit next to me stirring his coffee and then take the spoon out and lay it on my arm, asking innocently, “Is that hot?”. “Ow! Yes!” I would reply quickly with everyone at the table cracking up. I still don't know why I never learned to anticipate that.

The legend that he became as a practical jokester was accomplished where he worked. He worked for Georgia Power at one of the generation plants. They worked in shifts, it was hard work and sometimes dangerous, but they had made it through the war and were not afraid of work. They also played jokes from time to time and it helped build moral and a kinship among the workers. Daddy was really into jokes too. One day he left his shift a little early and went down to the locker room, removed all of his clothes but his underwear and then bundled himself into a ball in his buddy's locker. When his friend came down and opened the locker door dad rolled out of the locker and onto the floor as if he was dead. They had to revive his buddy.

Dad was involved in our lives. He was a member of the PTA and helped out with the scout troop. He taught us how to drive and let us drive his cars once we had our licenses. He also tried to keep us busy (as well as mom). I don’t recall him ever paying anyone to fix anything around the house, as well as his cars. He would fix plumbing and windows, replace water pumps, brakes, transmissions or anything else that broke. I’m not sure he really enjoyed doing that stuff. He probably couldn’t afford to pay anyone and had to do it himself (like me). He also worked on appliances if necessary.

We had to help him with whatever he was doing, although I realize now that he just wanted us to learn. I did learn a bit helping him, but mostly he just wanted me to hold the flashlight. Now, for those of you who have never had the privilege of holding a flashlight for a mechanic you have no idea how impossible that can be. There is no possible way to keep the beam of light in the right place no matter how talented you are or how skilled. There’s always something in your way (including your dad’s hands, arms or head) and your arm gets fatigued very quickly.
“Son, hold the light over here!”
“I’m trying, but your arm is in the way”
“Well, move over a little and shine it up between the starter and the bracket”
“Which one is the starter?”
“This one! This one right here! You don’t know what a starter is?” raising his voice as his frustration increases.
“Yea, I was just kidding, Hold on and let me move around behind you” trying to sound helpful and knowledgeable.
“Well hurry up, my arm is getting tired holding the ratchet up here” (like my arm wasn’t screaming from holding the stupid flashlight)
“I’m trying dad, I’m trying”
“Oh just forget and give me the light, I’ll hold it in my mouth” he says loudly as he jerks the flashlight out of my hand.

Good, now I could go back in the house and watch The Road Runner. Of course, when I walk back in the house my mom says, “I thought you were helping your father?”
“I was, but he got mad ‘cause I couldn’t hold the flashlight right”
“Well, go back out there and try to do it better, he can’t do that by himself”

My shoulders would slump at this point knowing I had to go back outside (where it was like 40 degrees) and knowing I was just going to get hollered at again. Oh well, caught in the middle again!

Our washer and dryer were in a room on the other side of the carport and were vulnerable to the weather since there was no heating or cooling there. So, in the winter the washing machine would often freeze up, if not the pipes supplying water to it. Dad would end up out there with a heater, torch and tools trying to thaw things out and performing resuscitation techniques on the machine. The room was just wide enough for the 2 machines to fit side by side and to get to the back you had to wiggle them out a bit and then jump behind them. Dad did this one day, after the washing machine had sustained an injury and quit on my mom. So, dad wiggled it out and climbed over dropping down on the other side. Once there he found that he didn’t have enough room to work so he tried to extract himself and climb back out. Unfortunately had had not pulled the machine out enough for him to climb back out and he was wedged in such a way that he couldn’t push it. He pushed, pulled, jumped and wiggled to no avail so he started hollering for my mom. Unfortunately, she was busy cleaning and vacuuming and could not hear him. He literally screamed until he was hoarse and to no avail. Fortunately my uncle happened to drop by and heard him and was able to rescue him, but it took a day or so for him to get his voice back.

Dad was pretty good with mechanical things. For instance, he had at one time 3 different lawnmowers, all of them rigged up in some elaborate way, although I’ve never seen him use one. My older brother asked him one time why he never cut the grass and he replied, “that’s the only reason I had you boy, now get to cutting”. And, although my dad could crank one on the 1st or 2nd try the boys could not crank one for nothing. He would tell us to have the grass cut before he got home from work but we would pull on the chords until our arms felt like rubber bands. He would get home and my mom would back us up and say that we tried all day to crank each one of his rigged up mowers and couldn’t. He would fiddle with it a minute or 2, pull the handle twice and the stupid thing would roar to life. To this day I have resent and fear small engines. They are a mystery to me and I’m sure they intentionally refuse to cooperate with me.

As I said, he taught us how to drive and he did a good job at it. He taught us on manual shift cars and was very patient as we jerked the car forward until we got the hang of the clutch. He taught us how to slow a car with the gears and to shift without the clutch if necessary. He taught us how to drive in hazardous conditions, including snow and ice. He showed us how to start a car that was flooded and the correct way to brake on slippery surfaces. He would make us stop on a steep hill, pull the emergency brake up, release the clutch until it took hold, release the brake and start off smooth. It took a good number of tries before we got the hang of it, but we did and he was very patient even when he thought we were going to destroy the transmission. I understood how valuable these lessons were as I started hanging out with other guys who did not have the same privilege and I found myself teaching them.

Dad worked at the local electric generation plant and worked odd, rotating shifts with a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of overtime. In all his time with his company he missed one day sick until he had his heart attack. I guess if you made it through a war you felt like work was easy street. In the evenings when we were home he would always be found sitting in his chair reading the paper and smoking a cigarette. His hearing grew worse and worse over the years from working at the plant and the TV volume was raised appropriately. He slept a lot during the day because of the different shifts and kept an air conditioner running in the bedroom even during the winter to drown out the noise. He wore a socking cap to keep his head warm so he wouldn’t get sick. And we had to keep our noise down as much as possible when he was sleeping. There was nothing worse than waking the bear from his hibernation!

Dad did have a temper. I would have probably had a worse one if I had the 3 of us to deal with. He could stop us cold with a snap of his finger and could call us home with a whistle that could be heard for miles. Now, you know how rambunctious boys can be and we carried that concept to its limits when we ran through the house and out the back door (the front door was only used by guests who didn’t know us). The back door had a country look to it with 3 panes of glass above waist level. Dad would always holler at us when we ran out the door and slammed it behind us, “Don’t slam the door, you’re going to break a window pane!” Of course, we apparently paid little attention to it because we never caught on. Well, one day mom and dad got into an argument about something and he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. We never said a word as we watched the top pane of glass dislodge itself and break on the floor. He never stopped either as he got into his car and sped up the street out of site. I’m still a little unsure about us ever having the nerve to laugh about it later.

He also lectured us relentlessly about spinning the tires on the cars. We had a ’57 Chevy with a large block V8 that was capable of smoking up the tires when you wanted to and he knew that young boys could hardly resist it from time to time. But, he was the one who paid the bills and he didn’t want to have to buy new tires before their time, so he warned us against it constantly. Of course, he and mom got into a fight again and we watched him smoke the tires out of the driveway, up our street, turn right onto the main road and smoke them out of site. I don’t recall it ever being brought up in his presence though. There were just some things best left unsaid.

Dad was also a deacon in our church and took those duties very seriously. He spent many evenings dressed up in his suit heading to the hospital to visit church members who were sick or injured. That always made an impression on me as I grew older and was sure it was a reason that the funeral home had never had such a crowd as were there on the night of his wake. We found out then what a likable and well thought of man he was to those outside of our family. He was also one who would help out neighbors and friends in need, like the time he saw a friend trying to roof his house by himself. Dad just drove on home without stopping, collected his tools and his oldest son and drove back to help out. Mr. Fricks reminded me of it after dad had died and what a great impression it had made on him that he would do that without being asked.

One other story about him that gives you a bit of a glimpse of the man: he was always kidding one of his friends about running out of gas. It seemed as if Mr. Kilgore was always running out of gas. I guess he just liked to see how far he could go on a tank. Well, dad and I were driving in that neighborhood one day and he blew the horn and waved as we passed their house. They were out raking leaves and waved back, smiling. But, instead of continuing on down the road dad just coasted to a stop 2 houses down. I asked him why he was stopping and he said that he had run out of gas and didn’t want them to know. He just smiled and headed back up the street, preparing for the taste of crow as he walked.

And now as I sit here and write, over 30 years after his death I wonder who he really was. You see I was a teenager when he died and had more important things on my mind than who my dad was. I was also doing drugs at that time and was only interested in my self and my own needs. He and I never did communicate very well anyway, so when he died I felt like he was a stranger to me. I would give anything to sit down with him now and talk for a while. That’s one thing we didn’t do much of and I regret it terribly. I would ask him to tell me everything he remembered about his childhood and the war and raising 3 rebellious boys. What was it like heading overseas as a young boy, knowing you were being sent to a war? What did you feel like when you were being shot at or shooting at others? And when you came home and started a family, did you have nightmares of those terrible days in Italy? Did you also feel overwhelmed at times with the weight of raising a family? Did you ever cry when things got too hard to handle? So many questions I would pepper him with that it would take days for him to answer them all. But, I don’t have that opportunity. I’m stuck here in time and he has moved on to a place where time no longer matters. I can only hope that when I leave this world I will be able to spend some time with him and that he’ll feel like talking about it all.

Oh, and dad,,,, I know you weren’t perfect and I know I was a punk. I’m sorry for all the grief I caused you and wanted you to know that I miss you terribly sometimes.