My father-in-law, the Master Sergeant, passed away yesterday.
He was, in some ways, a very prototypical man of his time and place. An Iowa farm boy and one of ten children (including three sets of twins within 5 years), his options out of high school were either farming or military. He chose the military and joined the U.S. Air Force, ending up spending twenty-odd years as an aircraft mechanic (hat tip to Old AFSarge, who was also an aircraft mechanic).
His specialty, as it turned out, meant that he did not have the opportunity to rotate locations as other Air Force members had: bound to his aircraft, other than single rotation to the Philippines during the Vietnam Era overseas and one to the Great North (where my sister in law was born), he spent most of his time in a location not too far from Old Home. The house he and my mother-in-law lived in, purchased in the mid-70's close to his retirement from the Air Force, was the one he lived in for the rest of his life.
He was a man of differing interests. A coin collector for many years (until failure of his sight forced him to stop), he specialized in Silver Rounds and Wooden Rounds (typically issued as commemoratives; there a great many more than out there than you might think) and for years served as the secretary and newsletter editor for his clubs; many was the time we would stop by their house and he would be in the back bedroom, typing away on his typewriter updating a newsletter. As a result of these activities, he had very broad network of contacts throughout the country long before the InterWeb and Social Media was a thing.
He was a fisherman for many years (mostly before I met him), boat fishing on the sloughs and bays by where he lived (The Ravishing Mrs. TB and my sister-in-law have several memories of being out with him fishing and him having them pee in a can). It was a love that he was able to pass on to his grandsons (my nephews) after he had largely stopped doing it himself.
He was also a master gardener; for years I was amazed at the size and yield of his garden (and this after he had scaled back): you can take the boy out of the farm, but you can never take the farmer out of the boy. His citrus trees as well were a marvel to me; for years I would go and visit and sit beneath his lemon tree, fragrant with lemon blossoms and tinted with the sound of the water fountain he had built.
Likewise his grilling skills were legendary. It was easily 10 years of marriage before I was "allowed" to cook ribs for him and even then only under his supervision for the next 5 years or so (He was very much a charcoal not propane fellow). And his ability to accurately tell me what size wrench I needed based on the nut remained an item of dark magic and sorcery.
Even when I met him, his life was dominated by diabetes, the disease which ultimately claimed his life. To be honest, he did not handle his initial diagnosis well: there was a fatalism to it, a certain "It is coming, and I am just going to continue to do what I want as it does not make a difference". As it turned out, it did make a difference: he was only convinced to stop smoking once his circulation became so poor they had to amputate part of his foot (he ended up loosing both lower legs) and he never - up to his final hospital stay in April - made a significant effort to control his diet, which ultimately contributed to the health problems that he ended up with over the course of his last 10 years.
He could be a stubborn man. He struggled with kind words sometimes to family - although knowing what I know now, I wonder how much of that was bequeathed via his own experiences growing up as came to find out with my own father combined with ever increasing physical issues. He was very loyal to his family and friends (58 years of marriage) and supportive of his family (even with the above issues with kindness at times), supporting my sister-in-law through her post addiction journey and two sons, whom she largely raised as a single mother and for whom Papa helped serve as a surrogate father. He loved all his grandchildren very much, proving the oft quoted rule by children that they have no idea where this grandparent came from as their parent was far different when they were growing up.
My relationship with him was typical, I suppose, of the relationship many men have with their father-in-law: we shared minimal common interests, but tried to find connections where we could. He helped redo the tiered garden boards at our first house (managing to tear his rotator cuff in the process) and invited me to a few coin shows, where I at least found some ancient Roman coins to buy. His advice in gardening and grilling (as mentioned above) remain relevant to this day. He always asked how work was going even if he scarcely understood what it was I actually did. He had a love for what are now called "Dad Jokes", although his wind-up could be such that one could the punchline coming long before it landed. Of personal matters we spoke seldom if at all; in that sense he remained a man of his time and I the introvert I always was.
He had been in hospital since April this year: a tumble off his scooter broke both of his femurs, which were slow in healing. He had begun to demonstrate signs of what I would call dementia. The Ravishing Mrs. TB lasted visited him in August and noted he both seemed confused and had lost a lot of weight. This Saturday past he had aspirated something into his lungs: the doctor said it was likely to result in infection which could not be treated. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law made the decision to put him in hospice Saturday afternoon. They estimated up to two weeks; he slipped off Sunday morning sometime between 0900 and 1000 between rounds - perhaps a last benediction, sparing his family the grief of a long wait and - very much like himself - leaving on his own terms.
At this point, the process takes over. He will buried in the nearest local National Cemetery, for which (I gather) we wait for an appointment and date.
The question of belief comes up in such moments. I cannot with definition say The Master Sergeant was a believer, even as I cannot say he was not: his personal beliefs on the matter were very private and he seldom shared them. That said, I can only choose to believe - as in all of these situations - that even the least spark of belief is enough; no-one could have been less likely to receive heaven than The Thief that hung on the cross.
I posted this when my father passed. It has come, I think, to represent for me the last best wish for all who find themselves in the latter years, facing the dark corridor of declining years with the knowledge of the common inheritance of Adam which is prescribed for us all, Death:
Ulysses
It little profits that an idle king,
By this hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and fee, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all,—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle,
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
