Ode to the Old Man

Even though the old man was born in Montreal, Quebec to Canadian parents his place of birth was a bit of a mistake. George and Alyce, his father and mother, had been living in Muskogee, Oklahoma for a number of years prior to his arrival. They would not become naturalized American citizens until 1939 and 1940.

In that August of 1924 they had traveled back to Montreal to visit relatives and escape the heat and humidity of northeastern Oklahoma. The old man surprised them by deciding to be born in the land of his ancestors. He was their second son and last child.

George, was of Irish descent and remained a Roman Catholic all his life. Alyce had been born outside of Leeds, England, but her parents brought her to Montreal when she was four years old. She was Church of England and insisted both her sons be raised in the Anglican tradition.

George, who would come to be called Dodie for reasons no one is completely sure of, agreed to the deal. Even so he made sure he and his wife were married in a Catholic church which is home to an Irish parish in southwest Montreal. Right next door, Montreal, being Montreal, there was, and still is another, slightly larger, Catholic church which serves the French speaking population living in the same neighborhood.

The old man's family was considered well to do. They were quite possibly in the top five percent when it came to income in Muskogee, which at the time was the third largest town in Oklahoma. There weren't any family traditions when it came to things like hunting, fishing, and camping. In fact Dodie wouldn't allow any firearms in his home, telling his youngest son, "No good ever came from a gun." The old man grew up taking that philosophy to heart. There would never be any guns in his homes, just as fishing, hunting, and camping were completely alien to his children as they grew up.

On the other hand the old man was an avid fan of team sports--nearly all of them as a matter of fact. He taught his first born son how to keep written scores of baseball games, an arcane code nearly lost in the 21st century. He also explained the minutiae of the sport. Even down to,"See the pitcher warming up? When he rolls his glove hand over like that he is telling his catcher a curve ball is coming."

He bought his first University of Oklahoma season football tickets in 1952. The seat numbers have changed, but he still has them. Later in life, during the spring and early summer, he would spend hours watching OU's women's softball team.

While he was in junior high school he and 14 friends formed a club, naming it, "The Mohawks." The club remained intact through his high school days. Included in their number was a kid who eventually became both a governor and U.S. senator from OK. Another would become a district judge. A third, the heir to a massive construction company, would be killed in the Pacific during WWII. He named his oldest son in honor of him. At age 95, the old man is the last surviving Mohawk.

In 1959 he moved his family to Oklahoma City so he could work in the administration of his Mohawk pal, J. Howard Edmondson. He would later spend decades in the liquor industry, working for an importer, then different local distributors. One store owner told me, "He is a great guy, but he never offers any kickbacks like a lot of the others do."

The date of his wedding remains a little murky because an elopement was involved. His bride to be had told him she was pregnant so he did the honorable thing. It turned out she really wasn't, but the first son did come within a year.

He served in the navy during WWII and was stationed on Guam when he learned of the death of his father. Because of the war and where he was he couldn't get back to Muskogee for Dodie's funeral. George was only 55 when he died of a massive heart attack.

By the early 1960's his wife had become a raging alcoholic who attempted suicide at least once. He refused to divorce her because he didn't want to leave her alone in charge of a houseful of kids--a rare display of devotion even back then.

She died of emphysema in 1997. Less than two years later his second son, a career print journalist, died of a heart attack. On the way to the funeral the old man lamented, "This isn't supposed to happen. You aren't supposed to outlive your children."

While more than capable of spewing racial epithets he taught his children to never pre judge a person by their race, or religion. He was a life long democrat who once said, "Democrats saved the republicans and everyone else in this country from communism in the 1930s." Despite this apparent passion for the left, he voted for Nixon twice, Reagan twice, Bush the elder once, and GW twice. His assessment of Donald Trump, who he didn't vote for, is succinct. "Why he's the craziest, lyingest, son of a bitch I've ever seen."

Over the nearly 70 years that I've known him he has proven himself to be incredibly loving, funny, and a wise and patient teacher. At times though, he has been known to spin off into profound fits of anger, and in a few instances, needless cruelty. Through much of his adult life profanity has been his preferred mode of communication. In short, as the line in the movie went, "He's just like any other man, only more so."

He is now stuck in a bed at a hospice waiting for the end. The doctors say it will come within two weeks, if not sooner. His bladder is eaten up with cancer and his kidneys are failing. Last night, while in and out of consciousness he watched game seven of the World Series. Although a life long Yankees fan, he was rooting for the Washington Nationals. They won 6-2.

The old man didn't teach me everything I know. He did, however, teach me every thing I've needed to know. At least about life. Along with my surviving brother and sisters, his grandchildren and great grandchildren, I will miss him dearly.

The world, or at least this small part of it, is about to be a lesser place.



sic vita est


10-31-19