Sunday, June 21, 2009

Day One Hundred Seventy Two...

Let's talk about my dad, Robert H. Evans. This photo was taken in about 1954 or 1955, when we lived on Dwight Street in Trenton, Michigan. The photo is of my dad (Robert H. or Bob) my brother Joe (who decided he wanted to be called Bob in High School and then decided he wanted to be called Rob in college and beyond) and me. I am the little kid in the background.

My dad was born on April 5, 1929 (in Bethlehem, Alabama) and he died on July 12, 1968 (in Rockwood Township, Michigan I think). I was 16 years old, and it was the summer between my Junior and Senior year in High School. My dad was about my height, but not as broad as me, but I think the population back then did not tend to be as large. He worked hard, very hard, and came from a background of little. His mother did not care for him as much as his older brother, so he was pretty much raised by his mother's sister, Ruby. Ruby was my great Aunt, and I have wonderful memories of her too. My dad answered to the name Bob, but Ruby always called him Robert.

My dad's education ended in the eighth grade, and I do not think that was too far from normal back then. He had migrated from Alabama, where he was born, to Memphis where he met my mother Martha. He was working for Gordon Truck Lines, as some sort of laborer, I am sure. He and my mother married in Grenada, Mississippi, and they were married until his death.

As I said, he worked hard, and always was wanting a better life for his family, and he provided that life, as his own sacrifice. We always had dinner at 5 PM, just a few minutes after he cam home from work. He was a predictable man, he worked Monday through Friday (and sometimes the weekends too), but he was ALWAYS home from work between 4:30 PM and 5 PM. Maybe that is why I like routines in my life. After dinner, he always fell asleep in his chair, but it was not unusual for us to go visit friends or relatives during the week to play cards or just to visit.

I had paper routes from the age of 8, and when it was really bad outside (usually cold), my dad would always drive me on my route, and in fact, he would generally let me drive the car part of the way on the route. I did not grow up hating my parents, as was the fashion of the late 60's, and I really had a great kid-hood.

My dad was a nice guy, liked by most and loved by me (among others). He has been dead for almost 41 years. Forty-one years is a life time, but I can remember details about it like it was today. I have often wondered how my life would have been different if he had lived. I can remember the last conversation I had with him, on the night of his death. I was working at Montgomery-Wards in Southgate, Michigan, and I had just gotten my first paycheck. I was making $1.60 and hour (and I had to pay union dues and taxes out of that), and I bought a pair of black wing-tip shoes with my first pay check. I called him from a pay phone, and told him about my check, and he said he would look at the shoes when he picked my up at 9 PM. He did not show up. I waited and waited, and many times I have dreamt about that night.

He and my mom and some friends had gone to an auction, and in the middle of the auction, he just fell over, and that was the end of that. No autopsy, but lots of speculation. My life changed when his life ended.

There is a possibility that I have lived his dream. He subscribed to farm magazines, and I think he was hoping to retire someday with some acreage (probably more than my 44) live the good life.

I hope I make my father proud.

Happy Fathers Day.

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