My daughter was seven years of age when she wrote to me the following note;
Some things should never be forgotten.
My father, George Gadd, was born into a dirt poor family on October 1st, 1939.
His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.
Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.
George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.
George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.
Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.
He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.
He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.
We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.
My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.
He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.
A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.
During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.
He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.
In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.
By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.
The ambulance was filled with his screams.
Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.
Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.
I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.
I agreed to let him go.
He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.
For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.
I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.
My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.
In this state he lives on;
A well remembered, George Gadd
His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.
Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.
George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.
George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.
Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.
He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.
He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.
We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.
My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.
He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.
A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.
During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.
He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.
In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.
By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.
The ambulance was filled with his screams.
Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.
Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.
I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.
I agreed to let him go.
He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.
For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.
I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.
My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.
In this state he lives on;
A well remembered, George Gadd
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