Growing up I watched my father live his life with enthusiasm. He hated his job deep in the recesses of an iron ore mine, but took pride as an underground foreman in maintaining a high safety record and encouraging the spirits of those under his leadership. He loved the fresh air, the woods, the lakes and farming, but to support his family he worked for many years in the damp and darkness of the tunnels under the earth on the iron range of northeastern Minnesota. It was a job he did with excellence and to the best of his ability.
As a young girl I would often meet him after work. I would stand, peering down, by the edge of the mine shaft, face in the rising, metallic smelling steam, waiting for the elevator to rumble up to the surface with that shift of miners, unrecognizable under layers of red dust. I always picked out my father from the weary group as they walked out past me, squinting in the harsh rays of the sun. He would greet me with a huge smile and wave as he walked to the showers and washed off the red ore and changed clothes before giving me a hug as we left for home.
Forty years in the bowels of the iron mines.
At the dinner table we shared news, ideas and plans. My father never dragged us down into his working day troubles. He took an interest in the news of the world and our schooling, always encouraging the four of us to pursue a college degree. He, like many fathers, wanted his children to achieve more than he had with his eighth grade education.
While above ground he fished the lakes, hunted in the woods and edged as close to farming as he could with a huge garden, rabbits, a pasture for making hay and a Jersey cow that he purchased before the banks closed during the onset of the great depression.
I remember the summer days when I would accompany him on his weekend drives into the countryside while searching for a hobby farm. I think deep down he always knew that my mother would never move to a farm far from town. But he would scan the ads in the paper, "Small farm for sale" and together we would check them out. I shared his love of the country and farm animals. He pursued his dream for many years, and never once did my mother deign to take a look. She was settled in town and that was that.
Each of us follows a path searching for that which brings meaning to our lives. We read, reflect, admire our heroes, and observe. At times we act. I am grateful to have spent many of my years living with a model who found meaning through his work, love of learning, and caring connections with those around him.
My father set an example of a strong work ethic even into retirement when he volunteered to help others, be it shoveling snow, hauling wood or fixing a broken appliance. Neighbors, nuns, friends and acquaintances were all included in his circle of care and regard. In the evenings he would read. Our home was filled with magazines and newspapers. He was always curious about the world, past and present. After my mother was killed and he moved in with us, he continued to relish work, reading and making friends with neighbors.
While we were at work he would spend his days cutting wood for our fireplace and taking his daily walk down the alley with his dog before settling into his afternoon adventures with books or the Discovery and History channels on the TV. He moved in with us shortly before his 87th birthday. I wanted to celebrate his birthday but since his move from northern Minnesota was recent, I thought he was still a stranger in our Twin Cities suburb.
I wondered to Bob, "I want to have a party for Dad, but he has no friends here yet and I don't know who to invite."
Bob replied, "Your dad talks about the next-door neighbors (he admired the wife's nice legs). Why don't you ask them to join our family to make the day a more festive occasion?"
"What about inviting Barney?" our neighbor said when I invited her and her husband to join us. "He and Doris will be hurt if you don't invite them. They admire your Dad."
"Who is Barney?" I questioned.
That was only the beginning. Each one I invited asked about someone else. By the time of his celebration there were 15 neighbors who joined us in our festivities. During the day when we were at work or school, my father had charmed himself into the neighborhood we never had time to get to know. It was less than two months since he joined our household and every retired neighbor in our block had come to enjoy the time they spent visiting with this man, my father, with his friendly, upbeat manner.
As one of the guests reflected, "This is the first time our neighborhood has every gathered together and it is all because of your father!"
For the next six years, until a few months before his death at 92, the neighbors came over to celebrate another year of exchanging stories and laughter with my father, a man who shared his love of life, work, learning and the world around him. His positive spirit was contagious. At his funeral, miles from the town he had spent his life in, the church and visitation were filled with not only his family members who lived in the area, but also by the neighbors who had been strangers to us, but who had entered our lives through this remarkable man.
Everyone searches.....for happiness or whatever they believe brings them that elusive nirvana. Some seek for meaning by making money, through buying things, using drugs, firming relationships, seeking fame, practicing meditation, religion, pursuing causes, volunteerism or love, and the list goes on.
Through the years I observed my father find meaning in his life through pride in his work, dreaming his dreams, connecting to others and nourishing a thirst for knowledge. He never had time to be bored or depressed. His focus was always on others. He lived deeply in the present and looked forward to the future.
"I want to keep on living because I wonder what will happen next." Raoul Goulet
