Dear Dad: How was your evening in heaven?
I'm not sure how that twenty-four/seven worship thing is going to be. I'm hoping the music's better up there. Don't they ever let you take a nap? In all fairness, most of the music down here is inspiring and anthem-like. A lot of the big churches even add fancy lights and smoke machines. No Dad, I'm not still going to KISS concerts. I quit that about thirty-three years ago! You and Mom hated KISS, but you let me go. The way I look at it, it's your fault!! Ha ha! You'll be glad to know that I'm sold out on Jesus music today. Have been since 1990. The one thing that I can't stand is when "worship artists" start playing around with a hymn. I mean, do we really have to add new lyrics to Jesus Paid It All or The Old Rugged Cross? I mean, good Southern Baptists have been singing the first and third verses to those songs about eighty years before Big Daddy Weave was born. And what kind of name is that for a Christian singer? How about Moses or Paul?
You would have been proud of the girls, Dad. We went to this little old ranch up by Rosharon, Texas for their first Western Horsemanship lesson. This place looked like a cross between Sanford and Son and Bonanza. Donnie, who if you looked up Texan in the dictionary there he'd be, was their instructor. He chain smoked Camels and barked out instructions like an old drill sergeant I once knew. I wasn't sure how the girls would react, they aren't too big on getting yelled at. But they took to ol' Donnie like a flea takes to the backside of a hound dog. They're already asking for boots and spurs for their next spin around the arena. And don't you dare call it a corral, them's fighting words in Rosharon.
Speaking of fighting, since you went to meet your Maker, the good old U.S. of A. has been fighting in Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and only the good Lord knows where else. Boys have been getting killed left and right for years. A kid from Byron, Illinois, where we used to live, named Alec, died at nineteen years of age. There wasn't a dry eye in town, but there were many proud hearts. You should have seen all the flags lining the roads into town. Now there's a Baptist church in Kansas named Westboro. But they ain't a real church. They're a bunch of morons who protest at military funerals because America's going to hell. It may be going to hell, but it ain't the time or the place to upset the family. So a bunch of bikers stood guard outside the church ready to pistol whip anybody who didn't look right. Worked just fine.
I know we had our differences, Dad, and both of us acted kind of foolish at times, but you know what? I never properly thanked you for enlisting in the Army in 1940 and spending the next five years in uniform. Knowing how quiet and kind you were, I bet you were scared %$%#&@*$ when you got over there. I know I would have been. I wish you would have told me a few more stories, but I kinda understand why. Nobody likes to talk about body parts, corpses, and rivers of blood. So you know what, old man. Thanks for telling me about the old @#%$@#% that everybody liked, Patton, and the one who all the guys hated, Bradley. He sounded like a pompous $#%. It made it seem real to me. Thanks! You made me proud. In fact, when I enlisted in the Navy in 1983, it was because I wanted to make you proud of me. I hope you were, even though our uniforms were pretty lame compared to yours.
Now speaking of hard work, I've been working at nuke power plants since 1988. I don't ever think I've taking more than one or two days for being sick in all those years. Heck, you had to be almost dying before you'd stay home. So I guess I'm a little more like you than I'd like to admit! But truth be told, Dad, it's not that hard. I sit at a desk and work and then teach a few times a week. I love it and I am excited to get to work everyday. Not everyone can say that.
I remember that you started working in 1930 for Western Union as a bicycle messenger when you were thirteen. I guess you never really stopped working until 1983. That's a long time, Dad. You were a hacker. I think you wouldn't be to happy with the employees you'd get today in your old company. Most days they might show up on time but as soon as they sit down and pop open a healthy beverage of some type, they're on those smart phones. I guess it's more important to let everybody know what color your socks are that day, or some equally important piece of information, than it is working. People even fight for their "right to social network" at work. That's just a fancy way for being lazy in 2013, Dad. I guess the equivalent in your day was the fifteen minute coffee break that always ended up being thirty.
I remember Mom being a hard worker too. Not only that, but she also was a feisty counselor at work too. And those young girls there needed it. More than once she told them to quit sleeping around and have some self respect. Even gave a couple of 'em bibles and one of 'em got saved. She was a regular workplace evangelist. When she wasn't kicking some #@$.
Well, Dad, I better get to bed in a little while. I have to be to work at seven, but you guessed it, I'll be there at five-thirty sharp.
Hey do one thing for me, Pops, if the old preacher, Warren Hultgren, is up there and if you can get him to stop talking, tell him hello for me. And if you see him, maybe you can stay awake this time for point three of his sermon. You might learn a thing or two. He's probably telling Jesus to be quiet right now so he can preach once a while.
Until the next letter. Your son, Bill.
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