Dad bought our twenty-three-acre farm outside of Edwardsville in 1965. The man that we bought it from also owned the hills surrounding us and contracted one of them to be used as the Edwardsville city landfill. Since he was moving out of the area, he and Dad struck up a deal for Dad to take care of the daily operations of it.

This generally involved Dad, my brother, and myself going up after dad got home from his regular job to spread and cover the three loads of ‘stuff’ that the city dumped each day. As Dad ran the crawler to push and spread the material, my brother and I would walk along side and pull out anything of value. Copper, tires, and anything metal were the main items to watch for, but occasionally one of us would see something ‘special’ and pull it out for ourselves. (I still have a glass piggy bank with one broken spot that came from there. It is used every day!)

On Saturday mornings we had to be there and have the place open to the public. We would collect the charges (for the city) and show them where to dump. In between ‘customers’ Dad would do maintenance on the crawler or work on digging out the next hole to be filled. Sometimes my brother and I would have to take sacks and ‘stickers’ (broom or rake handles with a nail sticking out of the end of it) and work on picking up all of the pieces of paper that the wind would catch and blow around the perimeter and beyond.

While Dad collected a monthly stipend for all of this, my brother’s and my time was considered to be part of our daily chores, along with feeding and watering our twenty-plus head of Herefords and assorted pigs, chickens, and pets. Once or twice a year we would burn off the insulation on the copper and sell it and our other piles at the scrap yard. The ten-or-twelve dollars that came from that would be split between my brother and myself, and was usually put into our college savings accounts at the bank. And while it’s true that we probably complained about not getting the cash for ourselves, and about having to work when, “…none of our friends do!”, we knew that that’s just the way it was…because Dad said so!

Dad was one of those people who strove for perfection in himself and seemed to expect it in those around him. If things went well you never heard a word. But if something messed up…look out!

Yes, my brother and I grew up petty much believing that Dad’s word was LAW. Not that that kept me from being myself! Indeed, many was the time when I would consciously think of Red Skelton’s ‘mean widdle kid’ …”If I do dis, I’m gonna’ git a wuppin’…I do it anyway!”

One time, after school and before Dad got home, I was riding my bike up past the landfill and saw it on fire! We found out, later, that one of the city trucks had picked up a ‘hot’ load and had gone by the firehouse and had them soak it. They had then brought it on out, dumped it and left. Once in the open air, however, it had rekindled and was spreading. The gate was locked, but if I could get in I knew where the key to the crawler was hidden. Over the top I went!  Grab the key and up into the seat! I spread everything out and sprinkled just enough dirt on it to put out the fire! Yes, I knew I would probably be in big trouble, but this was a ‘legitimate’ excuse to run the crawler! Put up the key, back over the fence, and back home in time to meet Dad getting home! I told him my story about the ‘big’ fire and how I overcame ‘great obstacles’ to put it out. He never said a word. When it was time, we went up like normal. As he looked over what I had done, he still never said a word! He just got the key and finished doing the job that he was paid to do. Years later I came to realize that he was proud of what I had done! He just didn’t know how to show it! Again, that’s just the way he was!

It had always been a point of pride for him to never borrow anything unless he absolutely had to, yet if anybody needed anything, it was theirs for the asking! Whether it was tools or equipment, or help with a project, Dad had always been willing and able to give whatever was his to give. And that included loving and providing for my brother and me…even though I was adopted!

I’d always felt that there was a tiny difference in the way he acted towards me compared to my brother, but never really thought much about it until my senior year of high school when I chanced upon the adoption papers. Suddenly a number of things made a lot more sense…like why I was at his and mom’s wedding ceremony!

He may not have known how to express his love outwardly, but this man raised me as his own for almost sixteen years. My brother and I never went hungry; we always had new clothes and shoes to wear, and always had a roof over our heads. We were always treated equally, whether in blame and/or punishment, or rewards. Had I not seen the papers I probably would never have known that I was not his real son…’till the day he died we never openly talked about it. Many a blood father would do well to learn from his example!

What makes a ‘good’ father? Ask any number of people and you’ll probably get as many different answers. But I ask you to consider this.

God, our Heavenly Father, has been far more vocal, over the centuries, about all of the ‘failings’ of His family. He has ‘laid down the law’ and set Himself up as judge. He has meted out punishment where it was deserved, and provided for the eternal condemnation of those who have abandoned Him. He is often silent in His praise for what we do right, yet ‘shouts’ from our conscience when we do wrong. Yet for all of that, we know that He loves us!

Unconditionally! And unquestionably! Because He sent His only REAL son (we might be considered His adopted family) to DIE on the cross…for US! What greater love can there be?

Can paralleling some of these parenting techniques be that wrong? I think not!

Over the years I have come to accept and appreciate many things. Among them is the fact that my Dad loved my brother and me, and raised us up the best way that he knew how.  And all things considered, I don’t think he did too bad!

HAPPY HEAVENLY FATHERS’ DAY, DAD!