This is what I wrote about my dad for the funeral service this morning. My father lived through some of the worst things that could happen to a child. His mother, Myrtle, died when he was five years old. The Great Depression hit him in an intensely personal way and wreaked havoc upon his family. When he was eight years old, his grandmother, who had helped his father take care of him, passed away. Shortly thereafter, because his father, Henry, could no longer take care of them, his brother Albert and my father were sent to the Franklin County Home. He spent most of his adolescent years living in that childrens home. The children’s home was run by the Methodist Church. My dad learned some hard lessons while living there—the first was not to run away. He tried to go home and was captured and was on the receiving end of a severe whipping. He spoke often about “the home,” as he called it, about his big brother Albert looking out for him and of the things that happened to him while he was there. The institution grew its own crops, and the children had to work in the gardens. It was hard work and it passed the time—and probably kept his mind away from thinking about other, less pleasant things. Working in that garden gave my father an appreciation for growing his own food—and never having to be hungry again. In his prime, my dad maintained huge gardens—and we ate what he harvested—it was nothing for us to harvest nearly a thousand pounds of potatoes and for my mother to can hundreds of jars of green beans, lima beans, corn, peas and tomatoes. Life’s most important lessons that my dad taught me, to be on time, and to go to work every day--were lessons he learned at the children’s home. My siblings and I quickly learned that my dad’s idea of being on time was to be 15-30 minutes early—and he modeled the work ethic to us by using ONE sick day in 43 years. My dad was NEVER late and just refused to miss work. Love of gardening and work was not the only thing cultivated by his life in the children’s home. In order to entertain himself, and more importantly, others, at the home, he taught himself to draw. The whimsical sketches that he did were heavily influenced by Milton Caniff, a cartoonist that he loved, but his style was his own and easily recognizable. Many of the sketches poked fun at himself, and the little things in life that, for some reason, he noted in fastidious detail. One of his last great pencil drawings depicted a horrendous fall that he took in May, that required seven staples to close his head wound—if you came to calling hours you saw it displayed, entitled “In Stitches.” When he worked at JC Penney, one of the things that he enjoyed the most was doing caricatures of fellow employees that were presented to them when they left or retired. One of the skills he had was recognizing subtle things about people that made them unique and accentuating those qualities in the caricatures. I have talked to many people over the years that hold those pictures, and my father, in high esteem. One of the ironies of his stay at “the home” was that my dad never wanted to let his family to miss what he did growing up—and he and my mother made huge sacrifices in order to build and maintain the home that they moved into in 1963. My father and mother had their priorities in order—and they were their children, the house, the mortgage payment, the house and car insurance—and their own needs were pretty far down that list. I do not remember my dad and mom ever going out to eat at a restaurant—but I do remember the meals that we ate together at our house, even the ones that were in what we called “don’t eat week.” Those were usually at the end of a month when the bills were due—but despite no trip to the grocery that week, the produce that we put up made them infinitely bearable. While other families took elaborate vacations—my family took day trips, with an occasional overnight stay for a Reds game or to visit relatives. The best part of those trips for my dad was always the part when we pulled into our driveway and got home. Home was a very strong theme in my father’s life—and I firmly believe that the concept helped him get through his bouts of ill health. The most powerful motivating factor in all of his recoveries was his desire to return “home.” Living without his family in that children’s home cemented his desire to never be away from his home for very long. I am thankful that with the help of my mother (who took the “for better and for worse” part of her wedding vows VERY seriously), great medical care, and at the end, the wonderful folks in hospice—that my dad was able to pass peacefully in his sleep beside the woman that he married nearly 63 years ago. At the top of the list of important values learned in the Methodist Children’s Home in Worthington was something that I discovered about my father at a very early age—his religious beliefs. I am not exactly sure how old I was, but one day I came upon my father getting ready for bed—and he was on his knees, praying aloud—and his prayers were long prayers. Every night my father prayed, and he got onto his knees until his health issues made it impossible. Long after his brothers had died, he prayed for their souls, as he did for my sister after she passed—he prayed for everyone he loved and those he knew who needed help—and sometimes those prayers would last up to an hour. And, because of what he learned in that Methodist children’s home, they all started like this . . . . The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his names sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. Amen, Irvin Fitzer, Amen. Rest in peace dad.
Posted on: Tue, 29 Jul 2014 18:52:01 +0000
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