Dennis' Memories

As I sit in a plane from Johannesburg, South Africa to Sao Paulo, Brazil, I yearn for that simple life I had growing up on East First Street. Or do I ? Would I ever be able to work the long hours that Dad worked: all of the overtime, then come home to take care of the garden, chickens, dogs, cow, yard, car, etc. The only time he ever sat down was to eat or listen to a Pirates game. He was always up and gone (after milking the cow) before I awoke, and I always went to bed before him. I don't remember a single time that he was sick or ever went to a doctor. When he asked/expected help with the garden or the yard it always seemed to be so unjustified. I never understood at the time how hard Dad worked all the time, and I begrudged him a few hours of help each week. The biggest single project he undertook in my memory was building us the ballfield. It was nothing but weeds, rocks and three huge trees. I remember how he cleared a portion of the field each week and we watched the field grow bigger and bigger. The biggest job was to cut down those three trees and dig/jack out the stumps, with which Larry Stanford helped. That actually took the better part of two years and we played ball there with three big stumps for awhile. When I was younger he was able to play catch with us on the street. But I do remember as I got older his arm was too stiff to throw for us. I have few memories of actually doing things with Dad. One of the best was listening to the Joe L. Brown show on the radio on Sunday morning and learning about the Pirates. Of course, hunting was the big one. He took such good care of me in the woods -- be it one of the local spots for rabbits or Marienville for deer. He always gave us the best chance to shoot a rabbit, the warmest clothes, the best sandwiches. And I took it all for granted. Every year we made two long trips. One to the Pittsburgh Zoo and one to a Pirates game at Forbes Field, in the left field bleachers. Dad loved baseball. Every week he wanted us to go with him to see his mother. I did not like to go because there was nothing to do. We sat in the dining room on the sofa near Grandma and Dad and Grandma talked and we sat. I always wanted to go to Grandma Hiles, instead. I now realize that must have been very disappointing to Dad. I remember the only time I ever saw Dad cry. He picked me up at the Seminary to take me to Butler Hospital to see Mom after her breast cancer surgery. I knew nothing about it until he came to pick me up and he cried in the car as he told me what was happening. Looking back, I think he was so scared of having us kids without Mom. I remember a childhood full of swings, baseball, "cowboys and indians", hikes in the woods, beagle puppies, my basketball games, sled riding, stale bread with milk and sugar, Mrs. Paul's fish sticks . . . and a father (and mother) who were forever working. Somehow that work ethic was engrained in each of us, by example, not by force. I loved my Dad.