Remembering my father

Jack Duffy (left) lands a 10-pound brown for Dad.

 

Oct. 13 is a hard day to remember and a very tough one to forget. Ninety-nine years ago last week, my father was born, kicking and screaming, into an era filled with world turmoil.
Germany was fighting much of Europe when Dad came squalling into this world. Money was tight, and his father, David J. Richey, my namesake, owned a cigar making business and a barbershop in Flint, Michigan. He also owned a pool room behind the barbershop which he ruled with an iron fist.

Things were far more more raw in those days than now, and Gramps carried two .32 pistols in his pockets. He was born with a bad case of club feet, and one leg was several inches shorter than the other. He made do with his disability, and many people gave my grandpa a wide berth although he wasn't a physically intimidating man.

Gramps had problems, and didn't suffer fools well.

 

People who knew my Gran'pa knew he didn't take any guff from anyone.  He'd had maore than his share of problems, and anyone who caused him any grief paid deadly.

Pool cues were effective when a fight threatened to destroy Gramps' business. He'd crack heads and take names later.

Dad grew into the barber business naturally. He began cutting hair for his father in 1926 when he was 14 years old, and kept his barber license going for over 60 years.

Dad shared Grandpa's disdain for foolish-acting people.

 

There is a bit of feistiness in Clan Richey, and Dad was no stranger to it. Clio, where we lived in the 1940s and 1950s, had some Ku Klux Klan members. I remember one summer in the late 1940s when 50 or more white-robed and hooded Klansmen marched through downtown Clio on their way to a nearby cross burning.

"Damn bunch of foolish people," Dad said, his scissors clicking rapidly as he stared angrily at the hooded night riders. "They are a terrible waste of skin."

He spoke out, and no one ever faced him and demanded a retraction of his statement. Had someone tried, my father probably would have stuck their head in a used spittoon.

He fished and hunted some, and seemed to enjoy it when he went out with brother George or I. But the outdoors had been tempered out of him by the need to work six days a week to put food on the table and to raise twin boys.

His age and dementia combined to take my father away.

 

Dad lived a good life -- all 94 years of it -- but at the end he found little enjoyment in his last six months of life. He lived here with Kay and I for five years, and during that period he was as happy as anyone can be under such circumstances.

"I'd like to live to be 100 years old," he would say at least once a week. "It would be a lot better if I could still drive my car. Sure do miss that car."

Dad suffered terribly from dementia, and I don't know anyone who can sit and silently watch a loved one slowly lose their mind and whatever dignity that might remain of their life without being mentally scarred as well.

We would quiz him to keep his mind as nimble as the years would allow, and some of his answers were bang-on while many missed the mark. One day he would be as sharp as a brand new tack, and the next it was doubtful he knew us.

But, for the most part, he knew us and knew we were laboring on his behalf. I'd tell him jokes that he had heard many times before, and each time he would laugh and roar as if he had never heard them before.

One night, perhaps two weeks before his death, he was frightened and we sat on his bed, held him close, told him that we loved him, and soon he would settle down. There I was, both flanks on the edge of his bed in the darkened bedroom, when out of nowhere came a large bony fist that connected with my shoulder and knocked me to the floor.

"Hey, Pop, why did you hit me?" I asked. He muttered something under his breath that I didn't understand as he continued to talk to Kay. I sat back down on the bed but made certain I was out of the range of his flailing fist.

I casually mentioned it the next day, and he was shocked that he had hit me. I never spoke of it to him again, and hadn't thought about it again until now. That is the problem of this accursed disease; those who are affected forget, and those who survive, live on with good and bad memories.

Dad passed away on Oct. 13, 2006 in his sleep. The funeral home in Clio sent a hearse to Traverse City, picked up my father, and the driver asked if I wanted his face covered.

"Hell, no," I said. "He knows where he has been and maybe he would like to see where he is going. After 94 years, he deserves the opportunity to travel to his just rewards in the best possible manner and with the greatest dignity. There is no dignity in traveling anywhere with one's face covered."

And so he rode to Clio, hopefully gazing out the hearse window, and seeing for the last time our family home and the site of his beloved barbershop. And hopefully, twin brother George was there to help guide him home.

It's been just over five years since Dad passed, and I hope he knows we truly miss him and think of him every day.