Glug?! That’s an awfully peculiar pet name to give a kid, don’t you think? But, that is the nickname my Dad gave me. He used it from the time I was a baby until he died. Of course, I don’t remember him using it when I was a baby but here’s what he told me about the origin of that name: Apparently, I’ve had a hearty appetite from birth. According to my Dad, when I started bottle-feeding, that appetite resulted in the sound of “glug glug glug” coming from me. Thus his term of endearment for me … Glug!
My intention is to write a series about Glug, to share some unvarnished stories from my life that I think you’ll find interesting and maybe even entertaining. Since it was my Dad who dubbed me with the moniker “Glug”, it seems appropriate that I start this series by telling stories about my Dad and our relationship.
I have dear friends who have developed an excellent and extensive curriculum in Cross-cultural Communication. They teach that we all have aspects to our personalities that they call Life Formers. These could be obvious things like being born blind. Or they could be seemingly less apparent things like being left-handed. From the time I learned about Life Formers, I recognized that, easily, my most significant Life Former was that my Dad left my Mom when I was only three-years-old. With that in mind, you’ll understand that my memories of times spent with my Dad are precious. As I dove into this topic, my sense was that my memories of times spent with my Dad wouldn’t just be precious, they would be precious and few. In sifting through these memories, I found many more than I expected. As a result, I will be covering what I see as most significant highlights with this article and rely on subsequent write-ups to fill out the rest.
Chet
My Dad’s full name was Chester Alonzo Wiram. Everyone called him Chet. He was born in Fitchburg, Kentucky, to Lonnie and Anna Wiram. At that time, Lonnie was working in the oil fields of Eastern Kentucky and the family was living in a tent. According to the family story, when the tent burned down, the family moved to Indiana.
Chet was the second-born of 12 children. One child died in infancy and another, who had Down syndrome, died in adolescence when she caught measles. I grew up knowing Dad as one of 10 kids, 7 boys and 3 girls. Each of these, my paternal Aunts and Uncles, have warm places in my heart and interesting stories of their own. But, for now, I’ll limit this to a most significant story that the brothers shared with Chet.
Military Service
Six of the 7 brothers served in the U.S. Military. Four of them served at the same time in WWII. These were: Kenny in the Navy, Chet in the Navy, Frank in the Army and Gordon Hubert (aka Hub) in the Navy. Thankfully, my Grandma Wiram didn’t end up suffering the grief of the Mother depicted in the movie Saving Private Ryan.
Kenny, pictured here with his Wife Margaret, served at Naval Station Great Lakes (IL) for the entirety of WWII. There, he was trained as an engraver. One can only imagine how those skills were used in the war effort. After the war, he and his family moved to Washington D.C., where he worked for the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. When visiting Uncle Kenny, he liked to show samples of what he saw as his most interesting work. This included things like engraved invitations to President Kennedy’s dinners, the infamous Dag Hammarskjold stamp, etc.
Chet served in the South Pacific, most notably as a Petty Officer aboard the escort carrier, USS Bougainville. During the war, he worked as a Radarman. He received Bronze Stars for the battles of Guam, Saipan, Okinawa and Iwo Jima. When the war was over, before his honorable discharge, he served on Shore Patrol in mainland China. This last assignment set the course for the rest of his working life.
Uncle Frank was a humble hero who served in the Army. Though I never heard him talk about his experience, he was awarded the Purple Heart for wounds he survived during the Normandy Invasion. Later, he served as a liberator of concentration camps. After the war, Frank and his family moved to the Inland Empire of California. Eventually, he returned to Terre Haute, IN, our hometown, where he worked as a Letter Carrier for the U.S. Postal Service.
Gordon Hubert (aka Hub), the youngest of the four brothers who served in WWII, ended up attaining the highest rank. Like Chet, he served in the Navy in the South Pacific. After the war, he and his family returned to our hometown, where, taking advantage of the GI Bill, he attended and graduated from, what was then, Indiana State Teachers College. Gordon’s career as a school teacher was fairly brief. He was recruited to return to the Navy, eventually attaining the rank of Commander, with a battleship under his command. In retirement, he lived in El Cajon, CA and served as the head of the Point Loma High School NROTC program.
Chet’s Career
Since my Dad was 30 years old when I was born, I wasn’t around for his formative years. As a result, my familiarity with his education, as well as his work experience before I came along, is pretty sketchy. I know that he dropped out of the same high school that I ended up attending. I believe that was, at least partially, driven by his Dad, who was working to support a Wife and 10 kids, encouraging him to get a job. That belief is supported by my Dad telling me about going out for the high school football team and having his Dad make him return his uniform and quit the team. Later, in the Navy, he did get his GED.
The only job I remember hearing about my Dad having prior to WWII, was as a Jelly Maker at Ann Page Foods, the food processing plant operated by A&P. I’m not sure what, if any, jobs my Dad had immediately after the war but I know that, eventually, he joined the Terre Haute Police Department, as a Patrolman. He ended up retiring as the Lieutenant of Detectives. In retirement, he worked as a Pre-sentence Investigator for the Vigo County Courts.
Most of my early memories of my Dad have him in his police uniform. Although he left my Mom when I was only three-years-old, he came by our home frequently. Often, this was while he was on patrol. Our home was peculiarly positioned with one alley running behind it and another running beside it. Dad and his Partner, Harry Miller, would park their patrol car under the kitchen window facing the side alley. If a dispatch call came in while Dad was in the kitchen visiting with us, Harry would use his flashlight to signal Dad through the kitchen window. Meanwhile, he would visit with us in the kitchen while drinking coffee and smoking unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes. Those were two of my strongest sensory memories of Dad from that time … the smell of coffee and Lucky Strikes along with the smell of Old Spice aftershave and the smell of the leather components of Dad’s uniform.
Of course, working as a Police Officer sometimes means dealing with people during the worst times in their lives. That was the case with the most notable incident in my Dad’s police career. In the evening of February 1, 1954, a local man came home and shot his Wife and her two Daughters. The Wife and the eldest Daughter were killed. The younger Daughter was wounded but she managed to get to a neighbor’s home, to call the police. Apparently, the shooter’s actions were his response to being served for divorce, along with an eviction notice, earlier that day. When the shooter’s Son reported seeing his Father get a 5-gallon can of kerosene and hearing him declare that he was going to burn down the business where his Wife had worked, two Police Officers … my Dad and his Partner, Harry Miller … were dispatched to that location. While investigating the exterior of the business, in the dark and cluttered with numerous shipping crates, a bullet tore past my Dad’s head. My Dad, then, caught a glimpse of a man crouching behind a crate. When he called out to the man to surrender, he was answered with another gunshot. With that, my Dad fired four shots at the figure hiding behind the crate. After waiting and cautiously approaching, my Dad found the shooter lying on the ground with a .38 caliber revolver at his side and a bullet wound in his head.
NOTE: Every year the police organizations throughout Indiana conduct firearms competitions. During my Dad’s police career, he consistently placed First or Second in the handgun competition. Obviously, the assailant in the account above chose to shoot at absolutely the wrong Cop. In January of 1956, this story was published in True Detective Magazine in an article entitled The Cop Who Shot Straight.
By now, you probably think I’ve told you all there is to know about my Dad’s worklife. But you’re forgetting a significant aspect of his being a Cop. Cops were even more underpaid in his day and he was supporting two families. So, to supplement his income as a Cop, he did a lot of moonlighting.
I doubt that I know about all of his moonlighting but I do recall that, occasionally, he would transport cars for Bob Moore, a local Used Car Dealer. He, also, worked as a Salesman at a local appliance store, named Jimmy’s Appliance. Mostly, I remember him earning extra money through construction. Unfortunately for me, he was always too busy to pass his skills along. I often wish he had been able to do that. To give you some perspective on the level of his construction skills, let me tell you that he built a ranch style home for his second family all by himself. He told me the only help he had was from the concrete guys who poured the foundation and a guy who helped him raise the wall frames into their vertical position.
First Family
Earlier, I mentioned that my Dad supported two families. The “First Family”, the family I grew up in, consisted of: Gerry (Geraldine), my Mom; Nancy, my Sister; Dick (Chester Richard), my Brother and me.
I really don’t know when my parents first met. I know that they grew up in the same neighborhood and that they were part of the youth group at the Second Avenue EUB Church. When Dad was 21 and Mom was 19, they married. Nancy came along in 1941, less than a month before Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. Dick was born during WWII in 1944, just about nine months after Mom had visited Dad on R&R in Southern California. And, I was the Baby Boomer, born in 1947. I’ll tell you more about these family members another time. At this juncture, though, I do want to share two anecdotes related to my older siblings.
When the 9/11 attack occurred, I thought that the way it affected life in the U.S. must have been similar to that of the Pearl Harbor Attack. When I asked my Mom if my assumption was accurate, she told me that she really didn’t remember. She went on to say that was because she wasn’t able to pay much attention. Her first child, my Sister Nancy, had been born on November 17, 1941, just a couple of weeks before the Pearl Harbor Attack on December 7, 1941. Although FDR called that day “a date which will live in infamy”, I guess some people were just busy dealing with the circumstances of their personal lives.
When my Brother Dick was born, my Dad was aboard the Bougainville in the South Pacific. On July 4, 1944, upon the arrival of the news that his Son had been born, Dad and his shipmates celebrated the Fourth of July birth with a drunken party. Of course, in 1944, communication technology was not nearly as sophisticated as it is today. When the telegram arrived, the official news was that my Brother had been born on July 3, 1944, not the Fourth of July. The result was my Dad and his shipmates being chagrined and hung over.
Sadly, when I was only three-years-old, my Dad and my Mom got divorced. I don’t really know much about what led up to that. Of course, my Mom knew and my older siblings must have known much more than I did. Suffice it to say, it seems my Dad left my Mom for another woman. That made us, tragically, what has become common but then was quite rare … a “broken family”.
Second Family
Coincidentally, “the other woman” was named Nancy, like my Sister. Here too, I don’t know how they met. I do know that she worked for the local newspaper, the Terre Haute Tribune-Star. Somewhere, I have a clipping from that local paper mentioning that Officer Wiram seemed especially happy that day due to the birth of a Son … me. So, I’m guessing that Dad met that Nancy through the newspaper in his role as a Police Officer. I’m also guessing that the newspaper clipping I mentioned may indicate that they had a relationship prior to my birth.
Nancy had a Daughter from her previous marriage. Her name was Melody. We were the same age. Dad adopted her and she became my step-Sister. Together, Nancy and Dad had a Son, named Mark. Although he was my half-Brother, since he was nearly eight years younger than me, we didn’t really have a relationship as children. Sadly, all of the Second Family have now passed away. The most recent was Mark (pictured on the right) in January of 2021.
As you might guess, Dad’s second Wife and the Second Family in general, were not popular subjects around my home. That Nancy had native-American ancestry. My Mom, who was the least hateful person I’ve ever known, always referred to her as “Old Pocahontas”. Since that Nancy played a key role in my Mom becoming a single-Parent, raising three kids on her own, her harsh attitude towards “the other woman” is understandable.
Although we, the kids of the First Family, weren’t allowed to visit the home of the Second Family, once I got out of elementary school, my Dad started encouraging me to find opportunities to visit his home. Eventually I did. At first, I felt sneaky and guilty about doing that. When I think about it, I remember that I would tell my Mom that I was going out to do something with friends. Then, I’d walk to a gas station about three blocks from my home where I’d use a payphone to call my Dad and he would come get me. I don’t remember a lot of details about those visits. Mostly, I just hung out with Dad and started to get acquainted with that Nancy, Melody and Mark. Of course, sometime along the way, my Mom did find out about my secretive visits. I don’t recall there being a lot of drama associated with her discovery. For me, it was just nice to, then, be able to visit openly.
There was one incident that took place at my Dad’s house that I’m sure you’ll find to be amusing. I mentioned that Melody and I were the same age. Although we went to different high schools, we shared typical teenage interests. As a result, I began taking one or more of my buddies along on my visits, including times when no adults were home. Typically, we would listen to rock-and-roll music, drink sodas and eat snacks. However, one day we decided to joy-ride in my Dad’s old “beater”. He always had an old “beater” around to use when he worked construction. This one was a 1940s era Ford, complete with running boards. I don’t know why but it didn’t have an ignition key. Dad just made it easy to start with a “hotwire” setup. During that time, Dad painted his house pink. When he finished, he had leftover paint that he used to paint the old “beater”. That shade of pink was nice on the house. On the old “beater”, it was just bizarre. As you might imagine, it was pretty tempting for four or five teenagers, who were nearing the time when we could get our driver’s licenses, to see that hotwired old “beater” just sitting there. Anyway, we did give in to temptation and we took turns behind the steering wheel, ripping and tearing around the streets of my Dad’s suburban neighborhood. During one of my turns, I rounded a corner on the street where my Dad lived and to my horror, I saw a police car sitting in his driveway. In my panic, I jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left. That took us into a neighbor’s yard, over a sapling and nearly through the picture window of their living room. Again in a panic, we decided to have the only kid with a Learner’s Permit get behind the steering wheel, thinking that would minimize our legal exposure. Of course, the occupants of that police car, my Dad and his partner, quickly arrived on the scene. For me, everything after that is a blur. I don’t really remember the details of the aftermath. But, I’m sure I’m still grounded.
Dad and Glug
One of my favorite memories of Dad was when he came to my elementary school class for Sharing Time. No doubt you can imagine how special it was for me to have my Dad, in his Full-dress Police Uniform, come to my class to share about being a Cop.
Every year, the FOP (Fraternal Order of Police) held a family Christmas party. I don’t know how Dad worked out bringing the First Family kids to this and not the Second Family kids. Regardless, it was something I thoroughly enjoyed. Two key things I remember about my time there was that Dad always wanted me to introduce myself as “Chet Wiram’s brat” and he wanted me to be one of the kids who would sing a Christmas Carol solo. The one song I remember singing was Up On The Rooftop. Each kid who sang a solo would get the same prize. It was a fishnet style Christmas stocking stuffed with candy and in the toe was a fresh orange and a silver dollar.
We thought of ourselves as lower-middle-income but, in reality, we were somewhere between poor and lower-income. That meant we didn’t take expensive vacations. But that didn’t stop Dad from sharing fun times with us.
Dad’s parents lived in the area and so did most of his siblings. So, we always had family we could go visit. My favorite was visiting the farm home where my Uncle Willie, Aunt Lillian and Cousins Carol Sue, David and Pat lived. It was in a little community not far from my hometown, named Blackhawk. Uncle Willie worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad so the farming aspects of their home was limited. Still, they had a cow that they milked and Aunt Lillian made her own butter. There were enough chickens that we had fresh eggs every morning. Of course, there was always fresh fruit and vegetables. They had a few pigs but I think they ended up going to market instead of on our dinner table. I do remember “slopping the hogs” so they served well as garbage disposals. My favorite meal, though, was frog legs. The boys (David, Pat, Dick and I) would take gunny sacks to seine frogs out of ponds in the area and take them home for Aunt Lillian to prepare. During the day, the boys would have a blast playing on the farm and in the surrounding countryside. Carol Sue and Nancy would go horseback riding and help Aunt Lillian around the house. In the evening, Dad would hang a white bedsheet in the farm home’s large front yard and he would show home movies while we had popcorn, fudge and soda pop.
As one of seven Brothers, even as a young adult, much of Dad’s social life involved hanging out with those guys. Even after he left my Mom, Dad would come to our house to make home improvements – e.g. putting in a half-bath and shower, enclosing our front porch, replacing the shed and outhouse with a garage, etc. In a space in our backyard, next to the garage that he had built, he constructed a concrete ping pong table. I still remember watching those Brothers having a great time, playing ping pong under a single bare light bulb on hot and humid Indiana Summer nights.
The first real vacation I remember taking was when Dad took the First Family, including Mom, to St. Louis to visit their renowned zoo. Since Dad had a second Wife and a Second Family, I know that seems peculiar but, as a kid, I didn’t give that any thought. At the time, I may have been preschool age or at most, early elementary school age. I don’t recall the length of the trip but I remember spending at least one night in a motel. Of course, the highlight of the trip was the zoo. Gorillas, monkees, lions, elephants, giraffes and tigers, along with exotic birds and reptiles, etc. Plus beverages, snacks and souvenirs. How exciting?! And for me, one of the precious memories I have of Dad, Mom, Nancy Dick and me enjoying life together as a family.
Several other vacation experiences were made possible through my Dad’s construction skills. He built a camper trailer that we used at some of Indiana’s nearby State Parks. The one I remember the best was McCormick’s Creek. This too was one of those peculiar times when, regardless of the fact that Dad had a second Wife and a Second family; Dad, Mom, Nancy Dick and I were able to enjoy life together as a family. And, McCormick’s Creek provided a wonderful setting for that with its spectacular limestone canyon, flowing creek, scenic waterfalls, hiking trails, fire tower, stone arch bridge, Statehouse Quarry, wild life, etc. In addition to using the camper trailer for vacation experiences, we would set it up in our backyard in the Summer so that Dick and I could sleep outdoors. Let me tell you, in the days when A/C was not common, that camper trailer provided a welcome break on hot and humid Indiana Summer nights.
The vacation that stands out in my memory the most, though, was the trip I made with Dad and the Second Family to visit Dad’s older Brother, Kenny and his family in the Washington D.C. area. There’s too much to tell about this trip to include in this article. So, I’ll plan to cover those details in a later entry. Although this experience was brimming with highlights, the most meaningful parts were getting to know the principals much better – i.e. Dad, Nancy, Melody, Mark, Uncle Kenny, Aunt Margaret and Cousins Terry and Wayne.
Estrangement
As mentioned early-on in this article, my most significant Life Former was that my Dad had left my Mom when I was only three-years-old. Sometime around my late high school/early college years, I became more conscious of the negative effects of not having a Father around as much as I would have liked and thus, not getting much mentoring from him. As I struggled with considerations such as; higher education, career goals, finding a Wife, starting a family, financial goals, etc.; I increasingly developed bitterness about that lack of mentoring. That resulted in my avoiding contact with my Dad and not being very pleasant when we were in touch.
Looking back, I realize that my behavior only worsened the situation. But I was operating with the emotions of an immature late-teen and that was the choice I made. Although I doubt if my Dad knew the specifics of my self-inflicted estrangement choice, to his credit, he recognized that something was wrong and he loved me enough to want to correct it.
I remember that he called me, asking if we could meet for lunch. Grudgingly, I accepted. I believe we went to one of Dad’s favorite police patrol coffee-stops … Steak ‘n’ Shake. Actually, most of our conversation took place in Dad’s car in the Steak ‘n’ Shake parking lot. Once again, I wasn’t very pleasant with him but, in the end, I agreed to getting together with him more often.
I don’t remember much about the progression of our relationship following our Steak ‘n’ Shake meeting but our relationship did improve. In fact, we became closer than ever. I will be eternally grateful for that. Although it came later in the game than I would’ve preferred, I did get to benefit from Dad’s counsel on some important issues. And, it was truly a blessing to have him visit my workplace and my home, with my young family and especially for him to get to spend time with my Daughter, Misty.
Superman
I think it’s not uncommon for kids to think of their Dad as Superman. Based on what I’ve told you about my Dad’s military service, his police career and his construction skills; it’s logical to think I had that view of my Dad too. I did. But, I was shocked into reality one day in 1971. My Brother and I had gone to Qualifications for the Indy 500. When we got back to my Indianapolis home, we were greeted with the news that my Dad had been hospitalized with a heart attack. Today, we would have gotten that news directly by cell phone while we were at the IMS. But, back then, communication wasn’t that easy. It turned out that Dad’s heart attack had happened while he was at work in Terre Haute and he had driven himself to the hospital. So, much of the news we got was secondhand and vague. I don’t remember much about the immediate aftermath. But I know, as soon as we could, we made the 80 mile trek from Indy to Terre Haute. As I recall, Dad’s stay in the hospital was fairly brief, he was able to return to work after a moderate time off and all seemed to return to normal. After all, Dad was only 53-years-old.
Looking back, I realize that Dad’s lifestyle was one of doing all the things you’re not supposed to do to avoid having a heart attack. He wasn’t a chain-smoker but he smoked cigarettes a lot. More often than not, when he was smoking, he had a cup of coffee in the other hand. Being a cop is a very stressful job. On top of that, he worked like a dog, moonlighting to be able to support two families. Plus, maintaining relationships with a Wife, an ex-Wife and five kids is pretty stressful too.
With all that understood, it should have been obvious that another heart attack was an eventuality. But, to me, Dad was still Superman. Right? Wrong! In late May/early June of 1974, Dad was hospitalized with a heart attack again. That certainly got the attention of everyone in his family. The kids from the First Family all lived away from Terre Haute so we all started making it a point to visit as often as possible. My most vivid memory of that time was Fathers Day. All the kids from both the First and Second Families visited Dad at Terre Haute’s Union Hospital. For me, the most memorable part of that visit came when the family went out from Dad’s hospital room to a more accommodating meeting area. Dad asked me to stay behind in order to push him out to the meeting area in a wheelchair after he visited the bathroom. When he came out of the bathroom, he came out with a cloud of cigarette smoke over his head. I know that seems crazy but it’s just proof of how addictive nicotine is.
Although the 1974 hospital stay was longer than the one in 1971, Dad was eventually released and sent home. As I recall, the first weekend that Dad was home after his most recent hospital stay, once again, all the kids from both the First and Second Families came to visit. I remember it being an especially good time for all of us, with Dad imploring my Brother and I to stay longer when we decided to go play golf.
During the week following the at-home visit mentioned above, while I was at work in Indy, I got a very emotional call from my step-Sister, Melody. She told me that Dad had suffered another heart attack, that he had been rushed to the hospital, that it didn’t look good and that I should get there as soon as possible. I did just that. When I arrived at Union Hospital, since I was familiar with the 4th Floor location of their Cardiac Care Unit (CCU), I went directly there. At the CCU’s Nurses Station, I let them know who I was and who I was there to see. After some apparent confusion on the part of the Nurse I was talking to, she said, “I don’t think he made it up this far”. That confused me and I asked what she meant. She then said, “If you’ll go down to the 1st Floor, a Chaplain will meet you there to tell you what’s going on.” I was still a bit confused and somewhat numb but I got back on the elevator to go back down to the 1st Floor. That elevator ride was excruciating for me. The elevator stopped at every floor, with several people getting on and off at each floor. During that ride, I started to realize what the Chaplain would most likely tell me. But part of me was still hoping that Dad’s heart attack had turned out to be mild and that they had sent him home. After all, I still thought of him as Superman. But he wasn’t. The news from the Chaplain was that, at the age of 56, my Dad had died.
After getting the devastating news of Dad’s passing and realizing I was alone at the hospital, I drove to Dad’s house where the grieving process truly began. Ironically, the first step of that for me was to bum a cigarette from Melody. I had quit smoking for about a year but I started smoking again that day.
Prior to my Dad’s passing, my only experience with the passing of a close relative was with my maternal Grandmother. Grandma Ray was one of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever known and I love her dearly. But, grieving for her was somewhat dampened by the fact that she had been declining into dementia for more than a decade. And, Grandpa Ray was always good at planning ahead so there was no need for any of us to be involved in the funeral arrangements. But that wasn’t true with my Dad’s passing. It seemed that the mortuary for Dad’s funeral had been pre-selected. Otherwise, all the funeral arrangements had to be made. In a way, that turned out to be good for us, keeping us all working together. I know that involved the kids from the First Family working side-by-side with the Second Family. But, for the most part, I remember taking care of those responsibilities with my Sister and Brother. And, I remember it being especially hard for my Brother since Dad had passed away on July 2nd, the day before Dick’s birthday.
The funeral turned out to be pretty impressive. As a Cop, Dad had a lot of friends and acquaintances. Many of these were important individuals in our hometown. So, the number of people coming for visitation and the funeral was significant. The THPD assigned officers in full-dress uniforms to stand as sentries at both ends of Dad’s casket. One of these was Ray Watts, my first friend outside of my family. Dad had helped Ray join the THPD and mentored him as a young officer. Later, Ray became the THPD Chief of Police. The funeral concluded with a motorcade to Roselawn Memorial Park for the graveside services. Except for the funerals I’ve seen on TV of heads-of-state, etc., I’ve never seen a motorcade as lengthy as the one that escorted Dad to his final resting place.
Dad and The Lord
Considering all that I’ve told you about my Dad, you know that he had his imperfections. I suppose that there are those who would classify some of his imperfections as vices. One that he didn’t have, though, was drinking. Although I do remember seeing a fifth of bourbon in Dad’s pantry one year around Christmastime, I don’t recall ever seeing my Dad drink an alcoholic beverage. Obviously, that didn’t lead to him having a long life but it did set a good example for me. On the other hand, he didn’t set an example for me in what I now consider the most important area of life. I don’t have any memory of seeing him in church or even of hearing him talk about The Lord. At the time of his death, though I considered myself to be a Christian, I certainly wasn’t walking with The Lord. Consequently, my sense was that Dad was gone forever. That wasn’t so much of a conscious thought as it was a subconscious emotion. Regardless, it rendered me as being pretty unconsolable.
It was my Mom who set the example for me relative to having a relationship with The Lord. To this day, when I’m asked about how I came to The Lord, my answer is, “You know, I’m a very blessed guy. The first Sunday after I was brought home from being born at Saint Anthony Hospital, my Mom and my Grandma Ray took me to the Second Avenue EUB Church. So, I’ve been around the church and The Word nearly all my life. When I was 12-years-old, I confessed being a sinner, I professed my faith in Jesus Christ and I got baptized.” Of course, I don’t actually recall the events of my first Sunday at church. With that recognition, late in my Mother’s life, I asked her if what I tell people is accurate. She said, “Yes; me, your Grandma and your Dad.” Hearing that, my heart nearly burst with joy. Mom went on to remind me that she and Dad first got to know each other in the Youth Group at Second Avenue EUB Church and that he had done the same as I had when I was 12-years-old … confessing being a sinner, professing faith in Jesus Christ and getting baptized. In other words, that told me that my Dad isn’t gone forever. I have every hope of seeing him again when I’m called home to be with The Lord.
December 23, 1917 –
July 2, 1974
