Art Thurman
My dad was always my hero. After my mother became severely mentally ill, he sacrificed himself in many ways so my brother and I would not be cast adrift amidst all the chaos.
My Dad, Tootie
Mary Thurman Yuhas
Lots of people know about my mother and the debilitating mental illness that plagued her for most of her life. I readily admit that growing up at my house was pretty crazy. So sooner or later almost everyone asks me how I turned out so normal─or at least sort of. My answer is always the same. My Dad.
When I first arrived on the scene, Dad wasn’t around because there was a war going on. As much as Mom and I needed him, our country needed him more. But a little more than a year later, World War II ended and Tootie, as his brothers and sister called him, returned home to us.
Dad told me that he and I became good buddies right away. By the time I reached three, he was paramount in my life. One of my fondest memories of my father is listening to the old radio shows with him. Almost every night, the two of us──our faces cupped in our hands──laid side-by-side on the gray, floral carpet in our living room floor in front of our white, marble fireplace listening to shows like "Gene Autry" and the oh-so-scary, "Shadow". Every night when the clock struck eight, signaling my bed time, I would beg, “Can I stay up for just one more show? Please."
“Alright. But just one more,” Dad always answered with a smile.
On Saturday mornings, the two of us could be found at Walgreen’s on Main Street in Galesburg, Illinois sitting on the cherry red stools in front of the soda fountain. Each week, Dad treated me to a Coke and a chocolate pastry. He never seemed to mind that I was only interested in the chocolate frosting, and after I licked it off, I left the rest of the roll behind. He never failed to find a nickel for me to put into the jukebox so we could hear the latest tunes like "The Woody Woodpecker Song" and "Buttons & Bows".
Life got really tough after I turned eight. We had just moved back to Galesburg from California. Dad took a big gamble with his career and moved into sales instead of returning to plumbing. He sold commercial heating and air-conditioning equipment. Not only did he have to learn some engineering──that had to be daunting in itself──he also had to travel weekly around central Illinois. At almost the same time, Mom’s mental illness exploded. The fallout from the horrendous and baffling disease impacted every aspect of our lives including Steve’s── my two-year-old brother.
Dad had to somehow cope with a wife who was paranoid schizophrenic, two young children, his job, a mortgage and all the other bills and responsibilities all alone. There were no safety nets for families in those days and for whatever reason, no one helped us. We were on our own. Dad and I became a team of sorts. If Dad’s mother had lived, the story would probably be different, but the previous year, we lost her to leukemia.
Dad was thirty-three at the time. As an adult I have often wondered how he coped. Amazingly despite all of responsibilities, he was great at his new job and became one of the top salesmen in the company. Eventually he became a branch manager for several offices.
Life at home was hell. Mom screamed and fought and swore at "the voices" only she could hear nonstop. Our house was a pigsty. I imagine Dad’s traveling gave him time to regroup and build up his strength so he could return and endure the bizarre life we led. But through it all, Dad was always my best friend. He was my Dad, my Mom and everything else wrapped up into one. He was there for my brother too.
He taught me to respect all creatures, great and small and that everything had a purpose whether I understood it or not. He also taught me to judge people by their actions not by their wallet. “You’re to respect anyone who does an honest day’s work,” he would frequently remind me.
Way before it was fashionable Dad believed that women could do anything. He once said to me, “Women don’t get respect for all the hard work they do.”
That wasn’t idle talk on his part. He had a female accountant in the ‘50s.
My father encouraged me to be unafraid to tackle challenges and to take chances. “Mary Kay, you can do and be whatever you want.” But he cautioned, “Always remember, you’re a lady.”
When I had a problem, he was there. After a boy in high school broke my heart, Dad listened and gave me sage advice. When my best friend’s four-year-old niece died, Dad went with me to the funeral home to say good-bye to the sweet, little girl. And when I screwed up, like the time I made one-hundred-dollars in long distance phone calls──and that was a huge amount of money in the ‘60s──or when I smashed up his new car he was so proud of, he was still there for me. Naturally he was angry, but he never belittled, berated or carried anger with him. Dad was the original one-minute manager.
Dad was six-feet-tall and lanky, topped off with black hair and deep, blue eyes. He was movie star handsome and everyone noticed. I was so proud of him. But he was just as beautiful inside. He was and still is my hero.
One day after an especially difficult night with my mother, my husband, John and I sat down and had a heart to heart with him. “Dad, why don’t you leave her?” I asked. She’s never going to get better.” My heart ached for him to have some personal happiness.
“I can’t,” he said. “Your mother would be homeless in no time.” I knew that was the end of the discussion.
My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was darned close. He died young, at fifty-three, well over forty years ago, but I will always miss him and occasionally, I imagine what it would be like if he was still alive to comfort myself.
Thank you, Dad for all the things you did for Steve and me and for being the person that you were. Selfishly, I wish you were still here although I know God made a very special place for you in heaven and nothing I could do, could even begin to compare.
If I could have chosen a father, it would have been you. You were the best and I will love you forever. When it is my time, I know you will come for me and once again, we will rock back and forth on the cherry red stools and listen to music while we drink a Coke and I lick the chocolate off a pastry. The only difference is we won’t be at Walgreen’s.
***
Mary Thurman Yuhas
Lots of people know about my mother and the debilitating mental illness that plagued her for most of her life. I readily admit that growing up at my house was pretty crazy. So sooner or later almost everyone asks me how I turned out so normal─or at least sort of. My answer is always the same. My Dad.
When I first arrived on the scene, Dad wasn’t around because there was a war going on. As much as Mom and I needed him, our country needed him more. But a little more than a year later, World War II ended and Tootie, as his brothers and sister called him, returned home to us.
Dad told me that he and I became good buddies right away. By the time I reached three, he was paramount in my life. One of my fondest memories of my father is listening to the old radio shows with him. Almost every night, the two of us──our faces cupped in our hands──laid side-by-side on the gray, floral carpet in our living room floor in front of our white, marble fireplace listening to shows like "Gene Autry" and the oh-so-scary, "Shadow". Every night when the clock struck eight, signaling my bed time, I would beg, “Can I stay up for just one more show? Please."
“Alright. But just one more,” Dad always answered with a smile.
On Saturday mornings, the two of us could be found at Walgreen’s on Main Street in Galesburg, Illinois sitting on the cherry red stools in front of the soda fountain. Each week, Dad treated me to a Coke and a chocolate pastry. He never seemed to mind that I was only interested in the chocolate frosting, and after I licked it off, I left the rest of the roll behind. He never failed to find a nickel for me to put into the jukebox so we could hear the latest tunes like "The Woody Woodpecker Song" and "Buttons & Bows".
Life got really tough after I turned eight. We had just moved back to Galesburg from California. Dad took a big gamble with his career and moved into sales instead of returning to plumbing. He sold commercial heating and air-conditioning equipment. Not only did he have to learn some engineering──that had to be daunting in itself──he also had to travel weekly around central Illinois. At almost the same time, Mom’s mental illness exploded. The fallout from the horrendous and baffling disease impacted every aspect of our lives including Steve’s── my two-year-old brother.
Dad had to somehow cope with a wife who was paranoid schizophrenic, two young children, his job, a mortgage and all the other bills and responsibilities all alone. There were no safety nets for families in those days and for whatever reason, no one helped us. We were on our own. Dad and I became a team of sorts. If Dad’s mother had lived, the story would probably be different, but the previous year, we lost her to leukemia.
Dad was thirty-three at the time. As an adult I have often wondered how he coped. Amazingly despite all of responsibilities, he was great at his new job and became one of the top salesmen in the company. Eventually he became a branch manager for several offices.
Life at home was hell. Mom screamed and fought and swore at "the voices" only she could hear nonstop. Our house was a pigsty. I imagine Dad’s traveling gave him time to regroup and build up his strength so he could return and endure the bizarre life we led. But through it all, Dad was always my best friend. He was my Dad, my Mom and everything else wrapped up into one. He was there for my brother too.
He taught me to respect all creatures, great and small and that everything had a purpose whether I understood it or not. He also taught me to judge people by their actions not by their wallet. “You’re to respect anyone who does an honest day’s work,” he would frequently remind me.
Way before it was fashionable Dad believed that women could do anything. He once said to me, “Women don’t get respect for all the hard work they do.”
That wasn’t idle talk on his part. He had a female accountant in the ‘50s.
My father encouraged me to be unafraid to tackle challenges and to take chances. “Mary Kay, you can do and be whatever you want.” But he cautioned, “Always remember, you’re a lady.”
When I had a problem, he was there. After a boy in high school broke my heart, Dad listened and gave me sage advice. When my best friend’s four-year-old niece died, Dad went with me to the funeral home to say good-bye to the sweet, little girl. And when I screwed up, like the time I made one-hundred-dollars in long distance phone calls──and that was a huge amount of money in the ‘60s──or when I smashed up his new car he was so proud of, he was still there for me. Naturally he was angry, but he never belittled, berated or carried anger with him. Dad was the original one-minute manager.
Dad was six-feet-tall and lanky, topped off with black hair and deep, blue eyes. He was movie star handsome and everyone noticed. I was so proud of him. But he was just as beautiful inside. He was and still is my hero.
One day after an especially difficult night with my mother, my husband, John and I sat down and had a heart to heart with him. “Dad, why don’t you leave her?” I asked. She’s never going to get better.” My heart ached for him to have some personal happiness.
“I can’t,” he said. “Your mother would be homeless in no time.” I knew that was the end of the discussion.
My dad wasn’t perfect, but he was darned close. He died young, at fifty-three, well over forty years ago, but I will always miss him and occasionally, I imagine what it would be like if he was still alive to comfort myself.
Thank you, Dad for all the things you did for Steve and me and for being the person that you were. Selfishly, I wish you were still here although I know God made a very special place for you in heaven and nothing I could do, could even begin to compare.
If I could have chosen a father, it would have been you. You were the best and I will love you forever. When it is my time, I know you will come for me and once again, we will rock back and forth on the cherry red stools and listen to music while we drink a Coke and I lick the chocolate off a pastry. The only difference is we won’t be at Walgreen’s.
***