Sunday, June 19, 2011

Happy Fathers Day

Dean Jackson's Facebook profile

Happy Fathers Day

Sixty some summers ago Bob Jackson was trying out for the St. Louis Cardinals on one of their tours of the Midwest . The team was bird-dogging for the next diamond in the rough. Another Stan Musial. There were no bonus babies then, no superstars tracked since junior high for their five-tool skills. You had to beat the bushes in the small towns and sandlots across the country.

My father, or so the story goes, made it to the second day of the camp. The experts liked his ability to make plays, but didn't think he could hit major league pitching. He was excused from the rest of the experience. He wasn't meant to be one of the boys of summer, unless you count some church softball games decades later.

Sometime around that time, he found himself  hunkered down a hundred yards or so near the 38th parallel as part of mortar crew sending volleys unto a enemy hill. The hill wasn't named, just classified by a few numbers. Just another objective in the Korean Conflict.

Dad's never talked much about his experiences. A few photos here and there or maybe a story or two when you catch him at the right time.

There aren't tons of medals for valor or injuries received in battle. That's not dad. Just another American who didn't ask for the job, but willing went because around the world because his country called him to the frigid battle ground called North and South Korea.

For twenty years or more he'd work a full-time factory job and farm more than 100 acres. We raised just about everything at one point or another, cattle, sheep, hogs, chickens and even pickles.

This August would mark 55 years my parents were married. (Mom died in 2001) Just a few months after she graduated high school my father wasn't going her get away. I have a black-and-white photo of their wedding day. Dad 's waving like he's the President boarding a helicopter departing the White House.

My parents weren't heroes. They weren't world-travelers or scholars. Nothing, I suppose that attracts praise in the headlines these days.

But what they did do was work hard, and continues to do is work-hard and be who he was meant to be, dad to me, my brothers and sisters and grandpa to a slew of grand and great-grand kids from Mississippi to Colorado.

They were was faithful. Faithful to their kids, their friends with a common decency to everyone. The first to help, even if pushed into it by mom. Dad always had time to help.

There is no better song that captures the legacy my parents left than this.





Just the farm, photos, memories,a stubborn streak, a tradition of hard-work and a genuine appreciation for anyone trying to do the right thing.



Thanks Mom and Dad.

Someday, sooner than I can imagine, my daughter will only have memories and a often-misinvested legacy from me. God-willing, I hope Dakota will say the same.