A Milestone: 80 Years? Already?

In January 1929, the 28th day, in the small town of Del Rio, Texas, a little guy was born that changed my world. Without him, I would be nothing. Literally. He is my Dad. Or “Little Daddy” as I call him.

There is not enough room here to tell all about him, but the short version is that he started out in Del Rio, and soon the family moved to Austin, where he grew up. His first job was at the Capitol Saddlery Shop, cutting leather conchos for saddles. He was under ten years old. Then he drove a bread truck for Butterkrust Bakeries, the rural route. He was 14.

He skipped his first day of school; his mother took him to the school, but he never went in. Instead, he walked part of the way home, sat on a rock wall and ate his lunch. Then he went home and told his mother that school let out early.
That was the last dishonest thing he probably ever did.

He grew up, and while he was off in the Marine Corps, his mother and father moved to Texas City, and so that’s where he came home to. While hanging out with a couple of tough guys on the corner, a girl drove by in a big DeSoto Suburban, and he was smitten. His buddy flagged her and the gang of girls she was cruising with and hitched a ride for him and my dad-to-be. Alvin, my Dad, reached up with his pocket knife and cut off a little curl on the back of her neck. He was sure he’d marry this girl. He did.

He was in the Marine Corps Reserves, so he got called up to go put down the trouble in Korea. He did, and brought home some metal from a Russian mortar that tried to kill him. It’s still in his left leg.

As a Dad, he was the best. He knew when to play, and he knew when to discipline. I remember nights after grueling tickle-fests in the living room, trying to settle down to go to sleep. Just as my pulse would return to normal, and my breathing evened out, I spied a form creeping in the door on its hands and knees, then springing up to my bed, standing over me on the blanket roaring and laughing before descending to pretend to eat my neck. I get chills even now thinking about it. I should be scarred for life, but instead, my children are. I also remember my mother saying, “Alvin stop it, let him go to sleep!”

He scratched my back with his whiskers on Saturdays when he refused to shave. Did all the normal things that a guy teaches his son how to do; throw a football, skip rocks on the river, catch minnows in a bedsheet, fly fishing, bass fishing, how to shoot a pistol and a rifle. How to drive (“More brake, MORE BRAKE!!”), how to trim trees with a bow saw and a rope (without falling to your death), and how to treat people.

More about that last one, because it’s important. Everywhere we went, I saw the way my Dad treated everyone; like they were his equal or better. The bus boys, waitresses and gas-pumping kid at the service station. The high school kids that scooped our ice cream at Baskin Robbins after Sunday night service always heard, “make it like you were makin’ if for yourself…” with a big smile from my Dad. Sure enough, they looked at him, and as the realization of what he said dawned on them, a huge smile spread on their faces. They would then bend to the task of giving the man that engaged them more ice cream than anyone else in the store.

There is nothing false or phony about this man. Everybody knows who he is and where he stands. As a machinist and later a maintenance supervisor at Monsanto Chemical Company for 31 years, he showed everybody there what it meant to be a Christian. Not a “Sunday Christian”, but a real, every day believer and follower of Jesus. For some of those guys, my Dad was their only exposure to God’s love and compassion.

I remember one guy in particular who had an alcohol problem that always would call my Dad for prayer and counseling late at night, or in the afternoon, or whenever he needed help. We took him to church and now, that man after thirty years, still stays in touch with my Dad.

If you have ever tasted an example of the produce or preserves from the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort; the bread and butter pickles, the red pepper relish and jelly, blackberry jelly, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, spinach, chard or tomatoes, you have participated in what he likes to do. That is, running around at a trot for hours a day tending to the garden and chickens. He can still out-work me.

So Happy Birthday, Little Daddy. From your Baby Huey!

PS: I have adopted the “Make It Like You Were Makin’ It For Yourself” ploy with ice cream dippers and the like. It works, just look at me!