My Dad, Hard to Please, Oh Yea

Like many fathers, my dad Carl Beck wasn’t the emotional type by displaying hugging, crying, or even willingly be able to say “I love you.” Looking back, his way to love was the quiet, steady love of going to work to provide for his wife and three children. After doing his duty in the US Army during WWII, he worked in the low seam coal mines of Melcroft, Pennsylvania. He was later hired to work the drill presses at Walworth Valve Company of South Greensburg where they made valves of brass, iron, and steel. The foundry would cast the metal and the rest of the plant would machine the parts and assemble them to form wedge or ball valves from 2 1/2 inch to 36 inch sizes.

The memory I want to share with you is about a Christmas gift. Dad decided to join the Saltlick Volunteer Fire Department. Each member had just purchased a firemen’s jacket with departmental patches and names to represent the company. He was discouraged to find that they couldn’t order any more. He wanted one so badly. With help from my brother Kenneth Beck, we tracked down an extra plain jacket, found the necessary patches, and had his name embroidered on the front. The jacket was a silky material of shiny olive green color with yellow-gold bands at the waist and wrists.

In the past, my brother often bought hunting coats etc for my dad and I told him, “I want to pay for this gift myself.” Ken said okay. Dad was never the type to fuss over any gift. He would accept each present without much emotion, nod, and barely give a thank you. I anxiously waited for him to open the gift wrapped box on Christmas morning. When he did, it was as though a light turned on inside of him when he saw the jacket. A huge smile spread across his face and he quickly slipped into the jacket. I can’t remember if he said thank you or not, but that huge smile was all the thank you that I needed.

When I would say good bye after visiting him, whether at his home, a phone call, or when he finally lived in a personal care home, I would say, “I love you, Dad.” He would always smile and nod, but little else. One day, a few months before he died as I said my good bye, he said those words, “I love you.” It was soft and almost sounded like a rusty hinge that grudgingly opened just a bit, but it was some of the sweetest words I’d ever heard.