Well, usually I reserve this space for making fun of UW athletes or remarking on how NASCAR makes the American public dumber than it already is.
However, in lieu of my typical rants my column this week is commemorating a great man. He never played any organized sport--in fact when he was my age the only field he fought on was a battlefield. He had a tattoo on his arm from his time in the service and that was really all I ever knew about that part of his life--he didn't like to talk about it. When the word \heroic"" was used to describe what he and his comrades did, he scoffed, remarking that, ""we were out there doing our jobs.""
He spent his formative years on a battleship in the Pacific Ocean or in bunkers on tiny, anonymous Pacific islands. After the war was over and his job was done, he came back to his hometown in Ohio and worked for a steel mill. While working there one day, half of his left ring finger was cut off by a piece of machinery.
Just looking at that hand always reminded me of how hard he worked and what he worked for. That half digit with his wedding band on reminded me that he always worked hard and that he always worked hard for his family.
He raised two sons in a small farmhouse on the banks of the Muskingum River, and with his caring wife's help, the two boys grew into men, one of whom would go onto the Ohio State University to become an engineer. The other one would remain in the small town where he had grown up, content with working at the power plant and raising a family in the hills of southern Ohio.
Seasons passed and as the great man grew older, he retired from the steel mill and laughed when his three grandsons would visit him. He'd go up to the north woods of Ontario and watch while others caught fish.
Then, when he felt like it, he would go ahead and catch fish on his own, explaining while in the process that young people are not the only ones who can catch fish.
Eventually the great man became very sick and slowly, oh so slowly, he began to die. His mind however, had other ideas about being sick or dying, instead of giving in. This great man fought with unmatched tenacity. He suffered silently and greeted family with a smile rather than a complaint. Even in what should have been his last hours the man struggled through, clinging to life long enough so as not to die on one of his sons' birthdays.
This great man, who was always so proud of his family, would always ask about the newspaper his grandson writes for, wondering when he could see some of his articles. Foolishly, the grandson would always forget them, remarking to him ""that I'd bring them next time.""
Well, next time never came and so instead of him reading my weekly 500 words of nonsense, he drifted off to a permanent sleep with the aid of morphine, surrounded by those that loved him.
