My Old Man

I was 8 years old, and the whole family was “Up North” at my Aunt Jane’s cottage on Lake Margrethe in Michigan. My older cousin Kim had been advocating for us kids to learn to use the “surf board” – basically a flat board towed behind a boat – as a first step towards learning to water ski. You hang onto a rope tied to the front of the board and the boat pulls you over the water. I was keen to do this only because my older brother and sister – Tom and Sue – had already done it, and I didn’t want to be left behind. Otherwise, I was scared crapless. The water was deep on that lake. The life preserver felt soggy. If I even got up on the board, I’d be hurtling over the water and into the Great Unknown, and I wasn’t consoled at all by the knowledge that my Sibs had done it successfully and said it was a breeze.

So when my time came I froze. “No, I’m not ready!” I shouted to Cousin Kim, who was driving the boat. My Dad was standing next to me in waist-deep water, offering advice and encouragement. He had already gone through the pre-launch checklist: “You kneel on the board, pull real tight on the rope as the boat takes off, and once you get going, you just stand up”. Death grip on the sides of the board, I yelled “no, I’m not ready!”

“Son”, my old man said, “I’ve got you. You get up on the board, I’ll hold it steady until you take off; you’ll do fine”. “But what if I fall?” “Then you fall, no problem, you’ll do fine”, he said. “I’ve got you. When you’re ready, tell Kim to ‘hit it’.” Taking a deep breath, I yelled the fateful words, the monstrous in-line six cylinder Mercury roared to life, and the boat took off; Dad held the board steady, the line grew taught and pulled the board over the water. I knelt up straight, stood up, and immediately took a Header off the board. A moment of panic as I plunged under water, bobbed to the surface gasping for breath, panicky about the crappy life preserver. Turns out I survived. I was fine.

Kim came round and towed me back to shore. Round Two: “Dad, do you have me?” “I’ve got you, Son. I’ll hold it, you get going, then stand up, then hang on”. The boat got going, I stood up, I held on. Success.

My Dad died Tuesday, October 25th at 7:40pm at age 83, peacefully, with all his kids in attendance. It had been a long road. I can report with pride and more than a little amazement that he stood up until the very last day of his life. More about that later.

Dad’s life changed dramatically in 1995, when our Mom passed away from complications of Hepatitis, contracted when she had received massive blood transfusions after the still-birth of our brother Johnny 45 years earlier. He and Mom had only just retired a half-dozen years before Mom died. On his own for the first time in decades, Dad learned a whole new batch of domestic skills: cooking, cleaning, and more than a little Feng Shui. If you’re not familiar with the term, it refers to a household being in Harmony. Dad would have scoffed at the concept, but his place always was: Mom’s Hummel collection arranged on the shelves just so, the perfect coordination of furniture, pictures and the modest collection of things he and Mom had accumulated. His place was always spotless, cupboards always stocked, plants well maintained and – according to Sister Jane - a garage floor you could eat off of.

The Emphysema that took him started shortly after that, and he battled with it for 15 years. Despite the illness, his independence was important to him. He drove his car until just the last few months of his life, even tethered to oxygen, and he got out of the house to visit until just the last few weeks. All of this happened with timely assists from Jane, Sue and Marilyn of course, but Dad fought for that independence, that self-sufficiency, literally until the day he died.

There were a lot of things that impressed me about my Dad, his endurance for one. Growing up, Dad worked over a decade of shifts on the Detroit Police Department, alternating a month of Days, a month of Afternoons, and a month of Midnights. Then he would start over again. It kept us Kids sharp, as we could never keep track of whether he was in the house or not, asleep or not. Years after we were grown, Dad would tell stories of seeing Tom or me pedal out to our paper routes, with him coming off a shift. I remember one of my chores a couple winters in the ‘60s was to light a Coleman lantern before I went on my route and put it on the passenger side of the VW Beetle that Dad drove to work when he was on Days. It really wasn't to warm up the interior though. It was to warm up the car enough so that it would start. He proclaimed it the best $25 he had ever spent. It was a big responsibility, though, and I took it seriously. If the Old Man was going to slog to work in some Beater with holes in the floorboards, I could take the time to make sure it would start.

Suffice to say, physical courage was a strong point with the Old Man. He worked the most dangerous jobs throughout his police career in Detroit, and in some of the nastiest precincts, including the 1st, 12th and 13th. Dad’s assignments included working patrol, as well as all the precursors to what is now known as SWAT. Those units went by various names: The Cruiser, TMU (Tactical Mobile Unit) and PSU (Precinct Support): All the same weapons, none of the body armor. He finished his career as a Sergeant in an undercover team called STRESS (Stop the Robberies, Enjoy Safe Streets). Many was the occasion when Dad would come back from work banged up in some fashion: stitches over the eye, battered forearms or shins. The last two were fairly regular occurrences, the price cops paid to neutralize a suspect, frequently hopped up on drugs. During the ’67 riots, Dad went to work every day dressed for combat – again minus body armor - which didn’t exist at that time. I can only imagine how that affected our Mom, but she never showed any fear to us kids. Neither did Dad.

Like wolves, Mom and Dad mated for life. After Mom died, there was no question as to whether he would date again. It just didn’t happen. Dad was content with the memories of his wife around him, including her treasured Hummel collection, which he maintained as if she might show up at any time. More about that later too.

My Dad retained the mental snap of a man 30 years younger, even as his health declined over the past decade and a half. His memory for names and details even in the past year was, as usual, ten times better than mine. My Dad was also the funniest person I ever met, and during his trials his sense of humor never failed him. Wry, understated, more than a little sarcastic on occasion:

- Day Five of our visit, and Dad needed help getting out of bed. I braced him under the arms as we stood up. Halfway up he said "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I let him sit back down and stepped back, asking "What's the matter?" Dad looked up and said very matter-of-factly “Son"; “Yes Dad”; "You’re standing on my foot"; I was, still. “Sorry Dad”.

- Day Seven, again trying to help him out of bed. Normally I had been on his left side with one of my sisters or my wife on the right. This time I braced him on the right. Unmindful that I was on his bad side, hearing-wise, I called out “one, two, three, Go!” “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dad said. “What’s the problem, Pop?” “Son, you don’t start on ‘three’! What the hell happened to the ‘one’ and ‘two’?” “Sorry Dad, my bad. What say you count?” He did, and that was our drill going forward, and successful every time.

- Day Eight, and Dad needed a little more light in his room so as to see his medications, all neatly lined up on a TV table. He wanted to do a thorough inventory of all of them so as to determine whether or not he was going to take them. I moved the prized Hummel lamp from the dresser down to the TV table. “Easy son. Easy with the Hummel lamp”, he admonished. “I got it Dad. Just wanted to get it down lower so you could see each med”. “Good show, Son”.

Then, the Inquisition began. Knowing full well what each of his pills was for, he nonetheless forced Janey to describe in detail each med, and its purpose. “This one is potassium, Smitty”. “Forget that; too big. What’s next?” “Mucinex to loosen your chest.” “We’ll see; next.” “You’re due for an Updraft treatment too”. “We’ll see. What else?” And so it went. Knowing that his Kids were still committed to him taking his medications, he slow-rolled us, endlessly dragging out each round, loitering over each pill or inhaler for many minutes, picking them up, putting them down, picking them back up again. After the first round, I realized that however many of his kids were in attendance, that our heads would all bob and weave in unison as he picked up a pill, brought it up for scrutiny, rested his hand on his knee, looked at the pill again, put the pill back on the table.

Next pill, repeat. All heads moving as if attached to a string. Son of a bitch, I thought. He’s enjoying this.

And why not? He’d already committed to not taking certain life-saving pills that were hastening his demise regardless of how faithfully he took others. Dad was letting us off the hook for the hard decisions that had to be made about cutting off his medications, wearing us down and eventually forcing us to give up. Feel-good meds (Morphine and Atavan)? No problem. Everything else? Nope, not likely. The Old Man was in control, playing the role of parent one last time. If he could have a little fun with his Kids in the process, all the better.

Back to the lamp. Once we were done and he had blown off most of his meds, I went to move the Hummel lamp back up to the dresser. Dad was perched on the side of the bed, as he had been for the past hour. “Easy son. Easy”. “I got it Dad.” Unfortunately what I had not secured was the Hurricane lamp next to it, which tipped over, the glass container shattering on top of the Dresser. This was a classic moment for Dad and me, as I was the Clumsy Child, and renowned for breaking things. Throughout my life, I was never punished for breaking anything, but my exploits were the grist of many a humorous anecdote the Old Man would tell throughout my adult years. Funnier still was that Mom was in on it, sometimes offering comments so as to make me look less goofy, but other times gleefully providing details that Dad might have overlooked.

Having broken the Hurricane lamp, I looked over at the Old Man, sitting on the side of the bed, calmly observing the carnage, hands resting on his knees. Our eyes met, and, deadpan, he said “Son”; “Yes Dad”; “Easy on the lamps”; “OK Pop”.

- Day Eight at the dinner table, and Dad was loitering over dinner. Sister Jane asks Dad “are you chewing on something?” Dad calmly replies “are my jaws moving?” “Yes Smitty.” “Then yes, I’m chewing.”

Dad was always on top of his condition. That turned out to be important over the past several years when his health would take a turn, as his doctors would advocate for a variety of surgeries and other interventions that he ended up vetoing. On that count, his doctors batted about .500. Unusual in this day and age, the Old Man was making all of his medical calls, including at the end, and I honor him for it. I can only hope to keep my wits about me so keenly.

Six weeks ago his health took one of those turns - for the worst – and Dad was hospitalized. Quickly enough, his Docs were advocating for a fresh round of therapy and an extended hospital stay, and this time Dad said no, I’m going home. My Sisters got him home and he almost immediately went downhill. Early Saturday, October 14th, Dad advised the Girls, and Father Prus was called in from St. Jimmy's to administer last rights. Jane called me in Arkansas and turned on her speakerphone so I could hear the proceedings. The simple service was beautiful, and the Padre said all the right things. At the end, he and my Dad started bantering. Over Jane’s speakerphone, and a thousand miles away, I heard Father Prus and my Dad get into a lively debate over the merits of the Ecumenical Council and all the changes to the liturgy. Not your typical Last Rights, but so typical of my Dad. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Father Prus and my Dad became lifelong friends right there.

And as Jane explained to me later, Dad spoke to her directly after that and said to make sure that Father Prus also presided over “the Thing”, that being Dad’s modest description of his funeral service. That wish was granted.

After Janey called me, and hearing the Last Rights, Sharon and I jumped in the car and headed North, expecting the worst. His condition didn’t change much over the 24 hours it took us to get to Detroit, and we were out of touch with the Sibs for the last few hours before we arrived at Dad’s place. Imagine my surprise to walk in Sunday afternoon and see him holding court in the dining room, weaker for sure, but otherwise the same man I had greeted every time I came to visit from Houston.

The next ten days were amazing. Dad weakened, then rallied, then weakened again. He got out of bed frequently, and when he didn’t feel well enough to sit in the wheelchair, he would sit on the side of the bed for long periods of time, one or more of his kids at his side. He fought through the fog of his illness and the medications provided for his comfort, kept up his end of conversations, amused us, encouraged us, and got into his wheelchair and came out to the living room almost every day, including the day before he died. By an almost supreme act of will, he also got out of bed and stood up at least once every one of those last ten days, including the morning of the day he died, when he was transferred to an easy chair by the Hospice nurses.

Sharon and I had the opportunity to help my sisters help him stand on those occasions, which got increasingly more difficult for him as he weakened. Timing was everything, and Dad would stress if he wasn’t able to stand erect immediately. We’d hold him from either side until – as he put it - he “could get his legs underneath him”. Despite the pain and discomfort, he would make light of his trouble standing.

In the last couples days when he went off most of his medications and his illnesses started to claim him, he was in and out of consciousness. Dad frequently called out Mom’s name those last couple of days, as if she was just in the next room, and in a sense, she was. My sisters and I were amazed and gratified to hear this. To witness such a thing was a Gift. Who’d of thought we’d get to hear Dad share a moment with Mom, just one more time? Despite the heavy drugs that kept him mostly unconscious, he was seeing clearly in those last hours, at least for the things that mattered.

My last moment with Dad when he was with it was early the morning of Oct 25th. He was stirring and restless, so I took him a syringe of morphine and Atavan. I put my hand on his arm and he focused almost immediately. “I got some feel-goods for you, Pop”. We were all well past the point of sugar-coating things. “Good show, Son”, and he patted my hand. He laid his head back after a sip of water, and he was spent. Still, I got a brief grin, as we all did repeatedly those last few days, Dad’s shorthand way of telling us that everything was alright.

When the end came later that night, Janey, Sue, Marilyn, Sharon and I were all there, all with a hand on his arm, or hand. At one point his breathing got very shallow, and it wasn’t but a few minutes later that he died. As he drew his last few breaths, the most amazing thing happened: a train whistle started blasting in the distance, clearly drawing closer. It got louder and louder, Dad’s breathing stopped, and then the noise of the train trailed off into the distance. We all looked at each other, eyes wide. The moment might not have been anything other than a pleasing coincidence to most families, but it was way more than that to us. See, our Grandfather - O.R. Smith - was a locomotive Engineer for 40 years on the Grand Trunk Railroad, and my Sisters all agreed that they had never heard a train whistle so close to Dad’s place, much less at that time of the evening. O.R. had come to pick his son up, pure and simple.

Dad’s funeral service was that Saturday, with Father Prus presiding over the mass. He recounted many aspects of Dad’s life, but as is the nature of such things, there was so much that would not be spoken of, including the near-countless small moments the family got to have with Dad in the last two weeks of his life. For me, what mattered most was the opportunity in those last days to observe him at his absolute best. The qualities that made him a good father and husband sustained his Kids as we watched him die. His bravery, his conviction, his sense of humor: all made it easier for us.

Dad was not the most expressive person in the world, but I fondly recall the ways that he was. For one example, if you ever had occasion to walk across a street or parking lot with him, you would likely find that, regardless of your age, Dad had locked onto the back of your arm or the back of your neck, and wouldn’t let go until you were safely across. The final flourish would be a slight shove those last few feet, propelling you safely onto the sidewalk, just Dad’s way of saying “I’ve got you; It’s going to be alright.” I was glad to have had the opportunity to repay the favor in a small way that last ten days of his life, helping my Sisters give him his medication and tending to him in other ways. In those last days when standing up got more difficult, we'd have to reassure him after he got on his feet until he felt secure holding on to his Walker:

"Hold the phone, hold the phone. I'm leaning too far forward. Hold me up for a minute". “We’ve got you, Pop. We've got you."

"Good show, Son. Good Show."

Welcome To The Club, Herman Cain

It's official: OffHisMeds has gotten over his snit at Herman Cain for race-pimping Rick Perry last month over the presence of the word "niggerhead" painted on a rock at the Perry family's hunting camp some 25 years ago. Notwithstanding that Cain jumped to conclusions as to Perry's involvement in the presence of that word, recent events have given Cain a similar taste of the Democrat Demagoguery that descends on any conservative who threatens the status quo, with Cain as the most recent focus of their malevolence. OffHisMeds believes this object lesson in Liberal gutter politics will make him more circumspect about using similar tactics against his opponents in the future.

Why should this matter to Cain? This year's not-so-big secret in presidential politics is that the electorate craves authenticity in a candidate. Witness Perry's meteoric rise in the polls after he declared Social Security a Ponzi Scheme. In a similar vein, Herman Cain has benefited from his unambiguous contempt for the Washington Establishment and his unabashed enthusiasm for radical tax reform. And it is no coincidence that Perry faltered in the eye of the public precisely when he started equivocating on those strongly held positions.

OHM's theory is that the Electorate is way more sophisticated than what the Establishment gives them credit for. As a prime example, witness the disdain in which the Tea Parties are held, despite their completely non-violent, thoughtful and eloquently expressed opposition to the status quo, and never more evident than when compared to the actions of the Occupy Wall Street crowd, replete as they are with instances of attacking cops, burning buildings, defecating in municipal flower beds and their non-stop incoherence. Despite the best efforts of Katie Couric and her ilk, the Tea Parties thrive and the OWS crowd looks like a bunch of petulant children.

Like I said, the Electorate craves authenticity.

Herman Cain resonates with all Voters, not because they necessarily agree with him, but because he does not deviate from his strongly held beliefs. If he continues to blow off his consultants and stays real, he'll be a credible threat to Romney, and would crush Obama in a general election.

Which brings us to the topic du jure: the sexual harassment scandal. OffHisMeds doesn't buy any of it, mostly because OHM has himself been formally accused of sexual harassment. The story the MSM does not want to tell is that accusations of sexual harassment against male bosses are not the exception, they're the rule. It happens literally thousands of times per day across America. It's as American as Apple Pie.

The script is the same as the one levered against Bill Cosby and Clarence Thomas when they went off-plantation, daring to threaten the credibility of the White Massas that run the Democrat Party. In each case, the White Massas mobilized the Media to not just attack these prominent black conservatives, but to attack them in an explicitly racist fashion, by smearing them as sexual predators, playing to the public's lesser angels in their Fear Of Black Men. Let's face it: nobody would have cared had Cosby and Thomas been accused of, say, gambling, and the same is true of Herman Cain. In fact, it's a tribute to Cain that this was the opening gambit. If this fails, the Jackals have no fallback to assassinate his character in the future.

Back to the history. Against both Cosby and Thomas, the accusations were tissue-thin and easily discredited. In each case, the charges were given legs for months, with the Media dribbling out information from anonymous sources that could not be proved or disproved. In each case, there was an attempt at a "coup de gras", a so-called credible "victim" who came forth much later in the narrative. In Thomas's case, it was the execrable Anita Hill, her of the "pubic hair in my Coke" fame. Much as Monica Lewinsky was forever soiled by a semen-stained dress, Hill was likewise discredited by her bizarre claims that Thomas used this as a come-on line.

Ironically, Lewinsky was at least provably molested by Bill Clinton, our First Black President, albeit that he managed to suppress the results of the IQ test administered to her that would have proven his offenses to be statutory. Don't fall all over yourself waiting for the MSM to pick up on that angle though. Democrats are not only immune to charges of sexual impropriety, they generally thrive on it.

As to the sexual harassment charges against Cain, don't lose any sleep waiting for the punch-line, which is that the alleged "harassment" won't have anything to do with Cain using his position to force himself sexually on these women. Rather, the one or two "provable" instances will be found to be the complainants' "discomfort" with Cain allegedly treating them differently because of their gender, which is the basis of most sexual harassment charges. Not near as sexy as Cain, say, trying to diddle them in the elevator, which is why the stories being leaked are so uniformly fact-less.

On a related note, did it strike any of you (OHM's three faithful readers) as more than passing strange that in the Perry scandal the term "niggerhead" was actually printed in most newspapers - and with wild abandon - by the mainstream media? Whatever happened to propriety? Whenever Kanye West uses the term in concert and it is remarked upon, the Media all use the standard "N----r" form, so as not to offend its reading public. Let the story be about a Republican, though, and we're right back down on the plantation, and the word "nigger" passes as freely from the lips (or pens) of righteous white Liberals as in the glory days of their ancestors.

On another note, it was passing strange that the Cain campaign blamed Perry for leaking the sexual harassment story, since this one has Mitt Romney's Machiavellian fingerprints all over it. Notwithstanding Perry's desire for payback after Cain jumped on the Niggerhead bandwagon, one need only look at who has benefited from both controversies, and that's our pal Mitt, putative Republican nominee, Establishment figurehead and soon-to-be Democrat punching bag.

Do you suppose he'll be surprised and dismayed (upon securing the Republican nomination) when Democrats and the Media start flogging his Mormonism? If Romney does win the nomination, Obama will win a second term: absolutely no doubt about it.

In all likelihood Cain will weather this storm, and the sooner he trots out his "high tech lynching" rebuttal, the better OffHisMeds will like it.