Dad

Talk about a steady job, my dad had it.  Joseph John Geshel was born February 28, 1901 says his birth certificate.  It had to be sworn to by witnesses some years later because the original was not found in the county records.  Back then records were hand written and not too responsibly kept, I guess.

He was the third child of the six children Joseph John Geshel and Mary Stephanic produced.  All the others were girls.  My dad graduated from High School in 1918 at age 17 in September mind you.  He was 1 credit short in June and asked to get his last credit immediately so he could get a job.  He was given a test on trigonometry and passed it with flying colors.  The Principal gave him his diploma and he walked across the street to the electric shop of the local mining company and asked for a job.  The foreman was impressed that he had a diploma so he offered my dad a job.  Dad said, should I start in the morning and the boss said show up after lunch and start today.  Forty seven years later he retired as the supervisor of the electric department.

He worked through the roaring twenties and apparently roared with the times.  He remained single through the depression of the nineteen thirties with night-time work as a projectionist at a local movie theater, and film developer for a local photographer.  He also maintained the fire alarm system of the village fire department, a then “state of the art”, system.

He married my mother, who was 12 years younger, in 1939 and immediately started a family.  Boy, did he ever.  My oldest sister was born in March 1940 and me, the fourth baby and the first boy, in December of 1943.  Four kids in 3 years and 9 months.  Mom took care of us kids with a loving attention while dad worked steady to bring home the “bacon”.

Dad was self-sufficient and added a back porch to our 3 bedroom house and built his “garage” next to it.  The girls all slept in their big bedroom and I by myself in the much smaller one. One bathroom for us all was a challenge to say the least as we grew up.

During my childhood, dad was “on call” for any electric breakdowns which occurred often especially during severe thunder storms.  Many times the phone rang and he had to go out in terrifying weather to repair the electric supply lines of the mining company’s operations.  I thought of him as a brave man to go out in such threatening storms.

My dad was “too young for the First World War and too old for the Second World War”, as was often said so he never did any military service.  He was a short wave radio enthusiast as a teen ager and the government took away his radio until after the war was over. A short wave radio could send messages around the world and private citizens were prohibited from doing that during wartime.

I only saw my dad cry twice in my life.  Once when my infant brother died when I was 14 and then when he drove me to the train station to go into the Army as a 21 year old.  He only cried about serious matters, I guess.

He retired in 1966 from the mining company while I was in France doing my service time.  He picked up a hobby as a “rockhound” searching for agates on the Lake Superior shore.  He spent hours during the warm sunny summer days and mentioned many times how beautiful the lakeshore was.  He made several polishing and cutting machines to make jewelery with his collected stones.  He made lots of rings, earings, key fobs, and necklaces but never sold any.  He just gave them away to anybody who said they were beautiful.  I still treasure the one key fob he made for me from the only agate I found on the beach.  We had spent the day together and providence let me find a “really nice agate’ just before we had to go home.  He polished it for me and I still think of him fondly as he and I had found each other like agates on the beach.

During those roaring twenties and for many years thereafter my dad smoked at least 2 packs of cigarettes a day.  He also drank several beers on Friday nights after a long hard work week.  Sometimes several beers too many.  In 1954 he became very ill with a respiratory illness coupled with a jaundiced liver.  Smoking and drinking were the direct causes.  The doctor told him directly, while he made a house call, and said,” Joe, you will not live six months if you don’t quit.  My dad responded, “In that case I already did”.  He never smoked or drank again.  He made only one exception when he took a sip of Champaign during the wedding toast at my wedding.  No, not my sister’s weddings but just mine.  He had a little wink in his eye and looked at me when he did it.

My dad scolded me when he noticed I had some cigarettes in my shirt pocket when I was about 16 or 17.  He yelled, “look at me, don’t do what I did, my lungs are shot, it’s no damn good for you, you don’t want to be like me.  And yes, he died from the effects of emphysema which is directly caused by cigarette smoke.

So this brief capsule  of my dad is based on memory, infused with respect, and thanksgiving filled with love.