Sometimes I think I have a good grasp on what I’m going to write, then I take a nap and find myself going down a different rabbit hole. I was going to comment on what Dad kept in his wallet, but then I flashed to Tim O’Brien’s book The Things They Carried, a fictional collection of interconnected stories about American soldiers in the Vietnam War and what they carried both physically and emotionally.
That got me thinking about what Dad and I carried over the years and the similarities and differences.
Wallets and rituals
Wallets are probably the most intimate thing a man carries, sometimes for years, if not decades. Over the years, I’ve found it hard to give up the old, retired wallets, and they’ve found themselves hibernating in the back of my sock drawer.
That led me to thinking about my four-tap ritual that I conduct several times a day. Check the right rear pocket, the left rear pocket, my fly, and my phone/radio.
Then I realized how I’m a creature of habit in other ways. My right pocket contains a Buck knife I bought as a pair with Son Matt when he joined Scouts, pocket change, and three silver dollars. Two of the coins are engraved with the birth dates of my two boys (which have become almost unreadable in the past 50+ years), and one of my Dad’s dollars that he carried so much that it has devolved into a smooth silver disk that you wouldn’t recognize as a silver dollar.
The left pocket contains two sets of keys, a Swiss Army knife, a small bottle of hand sanitizer and some nail clippers.
The other constant in my life is the notebook, writing instrument and glasses case in my shirt pocket. Wife Lila learned early on that I wouldn’t wear a shirt without a pocket. Here we are doing an American Gothic pose in The Athens Messenger photo lab in 1968 before we got married. I DID quit using a plastic pocket protector after I left Cape for Ohio.
Scouting was a big deal
His Scout committee membership card was the first slot in his wallet.
Dad wasn’t much of a joiner (he came home from his first – and only – meeting of the Jaycees complaining that the members thought it was funny to throw buttered rolls at each other instead of talking about serious matters), but he found a home in Scouting when Brothers Mark and David were active.
He made lifelong friends of other adult leaders, and put his construction and organizational skills to good use at the troop and district level.
Order of the Arrow Vigil card
He was proud to have been selected as an Order of the Arrow Vigil member, and later, a recipient of the Silver Beaver, the highest distiguished service award that can be awarded an adult leader.
We had his Scouting awards carved on his tombstone.
Family was important
I’m embaressed to confess that my wallet doesn’t contain any family photos, but Dad had pictures of Ken, Lila, Matt, Mark and David Steinhoff. I guess having cellphones with those kinds of pix has replaced prints.
Mother’s message
Dad and Mother weren’t big on public displays of affection, but there is no doubt that they were in love. This message to Dad from Mother earned a place in his wallet.
Bald Headed Men of America
In 1973, I sponsored Dad to a lifetime membership in the Bald Headed Men of America. He was still sporting his membership card when he died in 1977.
I was excited
When I saw the corner of what looked like a 50-dollar bill peeking out of the corner, I thought I had hit the jackpot.
Alas, it was just an attention-getting business card.
Business cards
Here are a few of the business cards he carried.
Paul Steinhoff was Dad’s brother. They didn’t associate much after Paul moved to Texas. I think I only met him once.
Dad’s Chauffeur’s License
I’m not sure what the A restriction was for. It didn’t say on the back of the card.
Surprising conversations and discoveries
Despite that I called Cape every Sunday night at 7:30, we rarely talked about stuff of substance. It was usually about the weather, work, Scouts, Kentucky Lake and the like. We rarely talked more than 10 minutes.
His wallet contained several of these notes describing some health issues and the meds he was on. I first became aware that everything might not be right when he helped me do some modifications on our back porch shortly after we bought our house in Florida.
He climbed down from a short stepstool and said that he was going to have to quit because he was getting dizzy. He had been told that the arteries in his neck were clogged, and there wasn’t anything they could do for it.
That’s when I also noticed that he had lost a lot of muscle mass in his arms. He had joked that he didn’t need to go to a gym because he spent eight to ten hours a day pulling on dragline levers that took 17 pounds of force to move.
Living close to the edge
Not long after that, we had a conversation unlike any in the past.
“You kids never had any idea how close to the edge we skated from time to time. Lots of small contractors went belly-up if the weather hit at the wrong time, or if a piece of critical equipment broke down. I didn’t carry life insurance, because I thought it was better for me to put every penny into the business, gambling that was the better use of the money. If something had happened to me, though, you’d have been in for tough times.”
I was amused when he told me about how a friendly insurance agent helped him out. You had to have permits to transport heavy and oversize equipment on the highway. One of the requirements was that you had to have insurance for the move.
His agent would write up the policy and stick it in his desk drawer. If the move was sucessful, Dad would call and say, “We’re good. Tear it up.”
The agency has changed names several times over the decades, and the agent is long dead, but my house is still insured with that company in honor of Dad.
Earlier posts
- Dad and his hats
- Thoughts about my dad and my boys on Father’s Day
- With the family at Kentucky Lake in 1973ish
- Father’s Day 2010 – Dad at 21
- Dad helped build Cape’s sewers
Dad built Route W through Fruitland - A collection of photos for Father’s Day 2011
- Father’s Day 2012
- Fathers and fishing
- Dad and the ’49 Cardinals
- Some of Dad’s high school teachers taught US
- Christmas 1969
