I love how many readers have commented about their impressions of Dad, sprinkled through several chapters of "Love, Grandpa."
Here is an 8-minute movie of a life well-lived and how my Field of Dreams was shaped by a dad who always had time to play baseball.
YouTube link to portrait and tribute of Dad
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Dad passed gently and quickly through death's door earlier today, three months after my book poured out my heart about this great life. After nearly dying myself in April of this year, my memoir was my chance to share a certain testimony that heaven is real and our personal greeters stand for us at the gate. But so much of the book is about a Dad who exemplified humor, humility, and optimism.
One of the most touching rewards from readers of "Love, Grandpa," are those who loved the chapters about Dad. "Do you know how special it is to read of a son's unconditional love for his dad?" one such reader asked.
He rated so highly in all of our lives that it took more than one chapter to tell his story. I provide just a sample of each of those chapters here in loving tribute.
What a wonderful thing for Dad to hear the audiobook version I recorded and finished for him in time for Thanksgiving just one month ago. He listened twice, loved it, and I hope it eased his journey home today. His blindness opened a new world of audiobooks for him (the positive way he viewed blindness in a high-tech world) and he left with a stack of more books yet to be read. -- Roger Snell
Excerpt from "Love, Grandpa:"
One of the most touching rewards from readers of "Love, Grandpa," are those who loved the chapters about Dad. "Do you know how special it is to read of a son's unconditional love for his dad?" one such reader asked.
He rated so highly in all of our lives that it took more than one chapter to tell his story. I provide just a sample of each of those chapters here in loving tribute.
What a wonderful thing for Dad to hear the audiobook version I recorded and finished for him in time for Thanksgiving just one month ago. He listened twice, loved it, and I hope it eased his journey home today. His blindness opened a new world of audiobooks for him (the positive way he viewed blindness in a high-tech world) and he left with a stack of more books yet to be read. -- Roger Snell
Excerpt from "Love, Grandpa:"
Dad's humor masks sadness and secrets
Dad’s stories of his childhood were full of laughs, practical jokes, and examples of a great life.
As I grew older and used my reporting skills for family history, I discovered sadness, secrets, and tough times that Dad avoided telling and overcame with optimism.
Digging deeper into Dad’s life added to my lofty regard for him.
Dad was born April 17, 1929. His parents, Merle (Harbaugh) and Karl Snell, divorced when Dad was 9.
Dad bounced from home to home, living mostly with grandparents Irene and Offie Harbaugh on a farm outside Williamsburg, Ohio.
He began full-time work by 16 and was living on his own or homeless in a car — something I never learned until now.
When Dad told stories of these times, it’s funny observations like his grandpa Offie Harbaugh hiding when visitors came to the farm. One moment Offie was in the living room and the next moment, when the annoying guests approached the front door, someone would ask, “Where’s Offie?”
He’d be hiding somewhere in the barn or at the back of the property, for hours, or however long the unwelcome guest stayed.
Dad’s stories of other family members included the practical jokes and rowdiness of his father, Karl, and all Karl’s brothers.
Growing up in Harveysburg, Dad knew which home cooks were likely to have a pie on the window ledge to cool. Dad helped himself, stealing pumpkin pies and earning the lifelong nickname of “Punkin” for his thefts and the roly-poly weight in his teen years.
He told of Halloween escapades where they waited for the crankiest old men in town to go to the outhouse and then overturned the toilet on its door, so the victim had to crawl out through the hole and hope not to fall in the pit. After years of doing this, one intended victim finally got even. He moved the outhouse before Halloween and carefully covered the pit with branches and leaves. One of Dad’s accomplices fell in the offal. It was awful.
Those are the light-hearted stories of a happy childhood. I pressed harder about his parents divorcing when he was 9. These were stories he hadn't told before.
“I didn’t know about it until one day I was walking down the street and an old man there, John Syford, he was talking to another guy, and I was walking by, and he said Karl and Merle’s divorce was today, and that was the first I knew about it.
“She got custody, but she said I could go wherever I wanted, and I told them I wanted to go with my Dad. Dad and I lived in the house, and we had nothing but three or four straight chairs, that’s all we had, and I had a bed, and he had a bed, and that was all we had. And this was stuff I heard on the street, somebody said, ‘Your Dad got married today, didn’t he?’ That was the first I ever knew anything about Ruby.”
This was about a year after the divorce. Newlyweds Karl and Ruby Brandenburg moved to Dayton, but the apartment didn’t allow kids.
“When they found out I was there, I had to leave. So I left, and I went with Grandpa J.W. and Grandma Osa Snell. Grandma Snell was wonderful with me, and Grandpa couldn’t get along with me. So I didn’t stay there very long. I ran off from there.”
Remember that Dad is 10 by now, without a real home, and this is a history he never told us until I pressed. When he was 11 or 12, he went back with his mother, Merle, who had married Vern Armitage.
“Vern had a filling station in Dayton, and the house was built onto the back of the filling station, so I went up there,” Dad said. “He said he would give me a job. I think I made a dollar an hour, and I could run the station on Sunday. He was never open on Sunday, but he said he’d try it, and let me run it. So I ran the filling station for a good while.”
Dad turned 16 on April 17, 1945. He was living on his own, working at Cincinnati Milling Machine. They were making axles for B-29 bombers flown by American pilots in World War II. The war ended Sept. 2, 1945.
Karl and Dad both worked there.
“I was making 75 cents an hour, and Dad was making $1.25 or $1.50 an hour, and I was thinking, ‘Oh, man, if I could ever get up to making that.’
“We’d get into work early, and I’d sit on the bench at least a half hour before work started, and a guy I liked and I read the newspaper every morning. He’d read the newspaper and hand me part of it, and I’d read it. So I started reading the newspaper every day.”
Dad had dropped out of school by now and remained humble about his lack of education. Yet he was current on all news and well read. That’s how the newspaper habit began.
“I only worked at Cincinnati Milling Machine for four or five months. When the war was over, my job quit instantly.”
He was homeless at times.
“I stayed in the car a lot of nights, a lot of time. I had all my clothes in the car. I just pulled on down a country road and would sleep. Or go to Grandma’s or Granddad’s.”
Dad inherited his dad's gift for story-telling and sisters Donna, Jackie, and I laugh every time we recount the same stories. They occurred on a remote farm. The children, always our ages, were left alone while the parents went into town on some errand.
They always went at night, and always when a storm was coming.
He never explained why this family from long ago would go into town by horse and buggy yet lost electric during the storm.
The stories always involved someone who had lost an arm and had a hook. In one tale, the children heard a voice crying out, “Where is my arm? Where is my arm?” This cry was heard over the howling wind and crashes of thunder.
Then there was a thump, thump, thump.
Something was climbing the stairs to the children’s bedroom.
It was the arm.
Dad had several surgeries over the years and large scars that resulted. I have no idea what the actual surgery was because Dad had a different story every time we would ask. It usually came up on camping trips when it was so hot and Dad was shirtless.
Every time we asked about the scar, we got a different answer — but it always involved war injuries he didn’t want to talk about — like how he was shot by Indian arrows; or in a Civil War battle; or capturing a World War II machine-gun nest; or more.
Dad’s stories of his childhood were full of laughs, practical jokes, and examples of a great life.
As I grew older and used my reporting skills for family history, I discovered sadness, secrets, and tough times that Dad avoided telling and overcame with optimism.
Digging deeper into Dad’s life added to my lofty regard for him.
Dad was born April 17, 1929. His parents, Merle (Harbaugh) and Karl Snell, divorced when Dad was 9.
Dad bounced from home to home, living mostly with grandparents Irene and Offie Harbaugh on a farm outside Williamsburg, Ohio.
He began full-time work by 16 and was living on his own or homeless in a car — something I never learned until now.
When Dad told stories of these times, it’s funny observations like his grandpa Offie Harbaugh hiding when visitors came to the farm. One moment Offie was in the living room and the next moment, when the annoying guests approached the front door, someone would ask, “Where’s Offie?”
He’d be hiding somewhere in the barn or at the back of the property, for hours, or however long the unwelcome guest stayed.
Dad’s stories of other family members included the practical jokes and rowdiness of his father, Karl, and all Karl’s brothers.
Growing up in Harveysburg, Dad knew which home cooks were likely to have a pie on the window ledge to cool. Dad helped himself, stealing pumpkin pies and earning the lifelong nickname of “Punkin” for his thefts and the roly-poly weight in his teen years.
He told of Halloween escapades where they waited for the crankiest old men in town to go to the outhouse and then overturned the toilet on its door, so the victim had to crawl out through the hole and hope not to fall in the pit. After years of doing this, one intended victim finally got even. He moved the outhouse before Halloween and carefully covered the pit with branches and leaves. One of Dad’s accomplices fell in the offal. It was awful.
Those are the light-hearted stories of a happy childhood. I pressed harder about his parents divorcing when he was 9. These were stories he hadn't told before.
“I didn’t know about it until one day I was walking down the street and an old man there, John Syford, he was talking to another guy, and I was walking by, and he said Karl and Merle’s divorce was today, and that was the first I knew about it.
“She got custody, but she said I could go wherever I wanted, and I told them I wanted to go with my Dad. Dad and I lived in the house, and we had nothing but three or four straight chairs, that’s all we had, and I had a bed, and he had a bed, and that was all we had. And this was stuff I heard on the street, somebody said, ‘Your Dad got married today, didn’t he?’ That was the first I ever knew anything about Ruby.”
This was about a year after the divorce. Newlyweds Karl and Ruby Brandenburg moved to Dayton, but the apartment didn’t allow kids.
“When they found out I was there, I had to leave. So I left, and I went with Grandpa J.W. and Grandma Osa Snell. Grandma Snell was wonderful with me, and Grandpa couldn’t get along with me. So I didn’t stay there very long. I ran off from there.”
Remember that Dad is 10 by now, without a real home, and this is a history he never told us until I pressed. When he was 11 or 12, he went back with his mother, Merle, who had married Vern Armitage.
“Vern had a filling station in Dayton, and the house was built onto the back of the filling station, so I went up there,” Dad said. “He said he would give me a job. I think I made a dollar an hour, and I could run the station on Sunday. He was never open on Sunday, but he said he’d try it, and let me run it. So I ran the filling station for a good while.”
Dad turned 16 on April 17, 1945. He was living on his own, working at Cincinnati Milling Machine. They were making axles for B-29 bombers flown by American pilots in World War II. The war ended Sept. 2, 1945.
Karl and Dad both worked there.
“I was making 75 cents an hour, and Dad was making $1.25 or $1.50 an hour, and I was thinking, ‘Oh, man, if I could ever get up to making that.’
“We’d get into work early, and I’d sit on the bench at least a half hour before work started, and a guy I liked and I read the newspaper every morning. He’d read the newspaper and hand me part of it, and I’d read it. So I started reading the newspaper every day.”
Dad had dropped out of school by now and remained humble about his lack of education. Yet he was current on all news and well read. That’s how the newspaper habit began.
“I only worked at Cincinnati Milling Machine for four or five months. When the war was over, my job quit instantly.”
He was homeless at times.
“I stayed in the car a lot of nights, a lot of time. I had all my clothes in the car. I just pulled on down a country road and would sleep. Or go to Grandma’s or Granddad’s.”
Dad inherited his dad's gift for story-telling and sisters Donna, Jackie, and I laugh every time we recount the same stories. They occurred on a remote farm. The children, always our ages, were left alone while the parents went into town on some errand.
They always went at night, and always when a storm was coming.
He never explained why this family from long ago would go into town by horse and buggy yet lost electric during the storm.
The stories always involved someone who had lost an arm and had a hook. In one tale, the children heard a voice crying out, “Where is my arm? Where is my arm?” This cry was heard over the howling wind and crashes of thunder.
Then there was a thump, thump, thump.
Something was climbing the stairs to the children’s bedroom.
It was the arm.
Dad had several surgeries over the years and large scars that resulted. I have no idea what the actual surgery was because Dad had a different story every time we would ask. It usually came up on camping trips when it was so hot and Dad was shirtless.
Every time we asked about the scar, we got a different answer — but it always involved war injuries he didn’t want to talk about — like how he was shot by Indian arrows; or in a Civil War battle; or capturing a World War II machine-gun nest; or more.
