A fascinating story, this is for my own biological son, particularly. May he forever know how much I love him, and how serious I am about struggling against a generational flaw.
Fred was a teamster, and my grandfather. Not a union guy, but a driver of animals, both oxen and horses, that pulled wagons on Detroit’s city streets and highways, delivering the Detroit News to distribution sites. (He once was ticketed for bringing his horses to a gallop on West Grand Blvd.) He shifted to driving trucks about the time my father was born in 1919. For the rest of his life, Fred maintained a small fleet of trucks and drivers.
When Bob, my father, was 9, Fred built a new house. Their old house was torn down to build the Ambassador Bridge connecting Detroit with Windsor, Ontario, Canada, but the family could never afford to live in it. The new house was rented out to ease the terrible strains of the Great Depression. The family “made do,” grateful that Fred continued to earn a living in those dreadful times. Bob worked for Fred in those years, as a “jumper,” the guy who grabbed the correct number of copies for each stop along the way. He dropped the copies and ran along to catch the truck that never stopped, to save the clutch. His great treat for that labor was a nickel ice cream cone, “piled high with every flavor,” though his father disapproved of the waste. Ice cream remained Bob’s favorite treat for the rest of his life.
Bob disdained his father’s “menial” life, choosing for himself music, education, and culture. He became a successful organist, practicing for 70 or 80 hours per week throughout my life, and as a high school music teacher and keyboard tutor for exceptional young talent. He gradually and reluctantly accepted the value of his own father’s perseverance and industry.
In honesty, both were truly great men, selflessly sacrificing themselves, accomplishing sound and responsible lives in spite of enormous obstacles. In spite of what now clearly presents itself as great love, both men seemed to hate each other, and both appeared to hate my brother and me. And it seems that my brother and I did all in our power to deserve their contempt.
In fact, neither of us ever liked any flavor but vanilla ice cream.
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