Happy Birthday, Grandpa Wade

Grandchildren: I wish you could have known him

Today, February 19, is my dad, Carus Wade’s birthday.  He would have been 105 if he had lived.  However, he did live a life that was the quintessential tale of “pull yourself up by your boot-straps” self-made man.

He was born in Republic, Missouri, in 1912 to Grover Cleveland and Dora Ellen Wade.  Their first and only child because Cleve died that same year eight months after my dad was born.  Their story needs to be told as well because of the love and dedication this couple had for each other, and I will someday.  Let’s just say they “courted” for nearly six years and literally built their home by lantern light and the end of a very hard day of work and chores before they married.

The story of my dad’s birth was dramatic, a horrible snow storm, impassable by mule, horse or wagon.  After three days of intense labor, Cleve drudged through nearly waist deep snow 2 miles down a hill to his brother’s house.  His brother, Forrest came back to help, as he had delivered his children and several others.  My dad was born after several more hours with an abscess on the top of his head because he was in the birth canal so long.  It had to be lanced and that scar was with him his entire life-time.  A symbol of survival of him and his mother.

I have seen pictures of my dad during those months before his father passed away, a very chubby, (he weighed 9 lb. at birth) blond, and beautiful baby.  After those pictures, there are none until he was about 3 years old.

My dad had told me, as had other relatives that Cleve, my grandfather, died from a burst appendix.  Well, during my genealogy research I discovered his death certificate and he died from Tubercular Peritonitis.   My dad also said he didn’t have a doctor, but it showed he had been under the care of a doctor for several months.  I don’t know if that would have made my dad feel better about his death.  Probably not, because the fact was he grew up without a father.

Not only did he not have a father, his mother was not able to care for him for several years and he lived with his grandmother and then various aunts.  When he finally could live with his mother, she had remarried and had moved to Shamrock, Oklahoma.  Her husband was a very crusty, hard on the outside, oil field worker from Pennsylvania.  He had also been raised without a father.  He didn’t have social sensitivities (he cursed practically every other word---except in front of me) and he had lived during a time when fighting, drinking and carrying a gun was the absolute norm for a man working in the oil fields, family or no family.  He protected my dad, he made a living to care for him, but he also was responsible for making my dad self-sufficient.  His mother and his step-father were not the loving, close family my mother came from.  My dad didn’t know how to be affectionate or anything but blunt and harsh. 

He and my mother met when he was about 16 or 17 and they married when he was 19 and she was 16.  He had graduated high school, was already a self-taught automobile mechanic and had been working in the oil fields himself since he was about 13.  All he knew was work, and they moved where the work was.  Even after my brother was born.

My mom’s parents helped him and taught him because like I said he knew nothing about how a family really operated.  His mom literally was mentally unstable after Cleve died and so there was no mothering.  The first time he had ever seen or been around a Christmas tree was the Christmas just before he and my mom married in April.  My grandmother said he sat there all night long staring at the tree and presents. 

My dad never was without work, if there wasn’t an oil field or mechanic job, he worked at golf courses as a “greens keeper”.  As I said, everything was self-taught and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, repair or build.  If he couldn’t do a job because he didn’t have the right tool, he would make one or if he couldn’t get the part, he would make one.

He had a horrible temper and he was a believer in corporal punishment because that is all he knew, that is how he had lived.  Without going into detail, I can say he didn’t behave like most other people’s dad’s behaved.  But, I forgave him because I also knew the man who was so kind and so compassionate that he would fix a lady’s car and not charge her if she didn’t have the money.  He had a garage when he was living in Michigan when I was born and went out of business because he would accept chickens or bushels of green beans for payment.  After he died, we had letters and cards and calls from people praising him for helping them keep their cars running, for nothing.

When we moved back to Oklahoma, he got a job at Zeligson Truck and Equipment Co and worked there for almost 40 years as a diesel mechanic.  He had learned that trade while in the Army during WWII.  He became close to Sam and Bob Zeligson and became their personal mechanic.  He worked on their boats and cars.  He also refurbished an antique Rolls Royce and Jaguar for Bob Zeligson and was the only person who knew how to work on his Citroen car from France.  All the manuals for that car were in French.  My dad didn’t know French, but using the pictures could work on that car.  Working on cars or the like was as much a part of him as his hat he always wore.

He was a very intelligent, compassionate and a continually positive person.  Never did he complain about not having a father or being pushed from one relative to another as a child. Never did he complain about the fact my mom had issues and although he didn’t handle them well, he never talked bad about her or complained.  (She was diagnosed with Bi-Polar when she was 80---we knew she had issues but they didn’t believe in seeking out help).  Never did he complain about working hard and never taking a vacation.  He had trouble with his heart a long time before he ever sought medical care and they gave him at the most 3 years to live.  He lived 8 years with Congestive Heart Failure and his heart specialist told me and my brother it was all because of his attitude.  He never asked for help, he didn’t want to be a burden and when it was close to the end, he still never complained.  In fact, every time I called him or went to the house I would say, “How are you today, daddy?”  “Miss Patricia, the sun is shining and it’s a good day that God has made.”  As he said, “Even if it rains, the sun is shining.”

He wanted to stay in his house (mother was in a nursing home) and my brother and I did everything we could to make it so he could stay there.  He had diet restrictions and wasn’t supposed to do certain things that were strenuous, but we believed he deserved to have the kind of life that made him happy.  So, my brother drilled holes so daddy’s oxygen tubing could go outside to the patio and he had tools so he could work on lawn mowers or the like.  He like bacon, so we bought him bacon.  He wanted to mow so badly, so we got him a riding lawn mower.

My brother and I never left on a trip at the same time because of daddy.  The one time we did, he mowed and went in the house, turned on the TV, and just went to sleep in his favorite chair.  He always thought of other people and he had paid for pre-arranged funeral plans.  My brother and I didn’t have to do anything except pick out the color of flowers for the casket, for both he and my mom.  Always, thinking of others.

I write this more for my grandchildren who never knew this great guy.  This man whom your dads looked up to and emulated and respected.  A self-made successful man who thought of others before himself and who worked every day he could.  I miss him and although it’s been 19 years, I can still hear him saying, “Miss Patricia.”

Happy 105^th, daddy.