Whenever I am asked who had the greatest impact on me as a role model, hands down my number one answer is my father. Dad was one of the kindest men I have had the privilege to know, let alone being his daughter. He always had a twinkle in his eye, calm emotions and spoke to people wherever we went on errands or short trips. His kindness, love and acceptance of other people flowed through his relationships within family as well as the workplace. In our neighborhood, children were valued and loved when they came to our house. I’d like to introduce you to a few favorite memories of interactions my dad had that gave me a beautiful eye into his soul and heart.

Carol. She was about five years old and lived at the end of our street. She was allowed to ride her bike or take walks that brought her to our house where quite often she found my dad puttering in the yard or garage after dinner. In the summer, the garage door was always open and he’d be in jeans and a t- shirt, working away and whistling. On one particular hot summer early evening, Carol stopped to visit with dad. Under a blanket of complete five year old confidence she announced to dad, “Mr. Jewell, I won’t get bit by mosquitoes because I’ve got Off on.” (Dad knew about the product but had to have some fun with her) “But, Carol, how can it be off if it’s on?” She rolled her eyes and attempted to explain a bit further. “Mr. Jewell, it’s called Off but you spray it on and then the mosquitoes don’t bite.” 

“So Carol, you spray it on, but it’s called Off, but it’s not really off you because it’s on you, so why is it called Off if it’s on you?” 

This back and forth went on for a bit longer until Carol shrugged her shoulders, rolled her eyes again and exclaimed “Mr. Jewell, I just don’t think you’ll ever understand.”

***

Lester. This boy who lived on a nearby street in our neighborhood came from a family that didn’t “have much” as my parents used to say to describe what would be commonly referred to as a low income family or poor. It’s crucial to know, too, that when I was growing up in the 50s and 60s, the Saginaw River that ran south of us was very dirty and polluted from chemical and other waste dumping. The river teemed with carp that were able to grow to a hefty size, but families living in the city were admonished not to eat them. But there was Lester’s family.

Again, on a hot summer evening I was sitting on the front porch with dad. Most likely he had just finished mowing or watering flowers. Sitting on the porch, talking, and waiting for someone to walk or drive by was a pastime as we hung out as father and daughter. The corner of our neighborhood wasn’t especially busy with a lot of traffic, but there was enough activity to help pass the time waiting for the hot sun to give way for cool evening breezes. Soon, along came Lester with a couple buddies, each carrying a catch of several carp, big slimy looking fish swaying back and forth on their poles swung over their shoulders as they made their trek home from the river. We watched in silence. I waited until they were out of earshot and asked dad, “Do you think they’re really gonna eat those awful fish!” Responding in his usual gentle manner, he simply replied, “Susan, those fish may be the best meal they’ll have this week.” Even for a girl who was about 12 years old when this incident took place, I knew what he meant. Not every family had ample or healthy food to put on the table. 

*** 

Warren. As dad’s career with the city grew and promotions came, by the time I was in high school he had been appointed as Chief Building Inspector for the City of Saginaw. That role put dad in a position of meeting a lot of diverse people, both on the city’s payroll or in the community he served. This is where dad met Warren who was the assistant fire chief. They took a liking to one another and became friends. Warren found out my dad was a woodworker with all the great tools for the trade and asked dad if he’d run some boards through his table saw for him. Sure! Was always the answer and once again the humdrum of a hot summer’s evening was interrupted with the humming of dad’s table saw which was in the garage.

Warren showed up at the appointed time, parked his car on the street and came to the front door. When dad greeted him, Warren asked “Jack, are you sure you want me in your neighborhood?” Without any hesitation, I heard my dad say “Warren, you are my friend. Now, go get your family, your boards and let’s get going with what you need.”

Why was Warren skeptical? Maybe even a bit fearful? Warren was black. 

My dad saw color in people, but beyond that he saw the person, their character, a potential friend and in this instance, an opportunity to do a small favor. What I saw as Warren and his family made their way into our home was genuine kindness and respect. I remember his wife and daughter joining me and mom in the breezeway as the men took care of the lumber; I made a big batch of popcorn to share with his little girl. We all had a wonderful time together before they left for home.

***

A “Bum”. Long before my time people who were considered homeless were called hobos. For some reason the term “bum” was conjugated and used to describe the less fortunate living in our midst. I don’t think we were being particularly nasty when calling someone a “bum”; it was merely our way to describe their circumstances without truly knowing how they arrived at living a life dependent on the generosity of others. So, meet one such “bum”.

Trash pickup was early Friday morning which meant dad or one of my brothers hauled the barrels to the curb on Thursday night. They were always overflowing with the week’s stuff that had to go. Our barrels would be full of cans, food scraps, paper, and chunks of wood from dad’s woodworking projects. There was never a lid on the barrels or trash can because of the spillage of “junk”. One week dad put out an old sport coat that he didn’t need or want anymore. Remember how I mentioned that our street didn’t see a lot of traffic? Well, on trash night, that changed. We’d see a few people doing drive bys in their car, scoping out what everyone had put out for the garbage company. One Thursday evening, a “bum” arrived on our street, riding his bike and stopping to scavenge through everyone’s stuff. When he got to our house, he saw the sport coat, parked his bike and promptly tried it on, stretching his arms up and down, admiring himself, looking down and over his torso to determine if it was a good fit. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear he thought he was standing in front of a mirror to get a look at himself.  We guessed the jacket was a good fit, because we watched as he folded it very carefully and placed it in a basket attached to the handlebars of his bike. Dad’s reaction? “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t need that coat any longer; I hope it helps him out for a long time”.

***

Errol. This stern, grouchy man lived across the street from us along with his wife and two daughters. As a whole, the family was not very pleasant nor did they interact well or very often with the neighbors up and down our street. Errol was a city employee, too, so at times dad rubbed shoulders with him in addition to having him on our street. 

When I was a teen we had a small dog named Sydney and he didn’t know proper boundaries for staying in our yard if not leashed. It was another summer evening. Windows and doors were open to let in fresh air. Sydney needed to be “let out” to do his business and before I could snap his long leash on his collar he escaped my grasp and off he charged down the sidewalk. Errol’s two girls were in their front yard playing and Sydney made his way over to join in the fun. Only, the girls got scared, started screaming which alerted Errol and his wife who both came out their front door yelling at our dog to go home, which he did. But that wasn’t the end to the mishap which only amounted to our little dog jumping on the girls and trying to lick their faces. Errol walked over to our home, my mom answered his knock at the door and was the recipient of his curses and belligerent threats as a result of our dog’s wandering into his yard. I was shocked to hear a man use the Lord’s name the way he did, let alone his tone and pitch with my mom. (Dad was away during that time, most likely at a meeting of the city council or working a side woodworking job) Oh, but when dad arrived home. Details of the incident were relayed by my mother–still shaken and upset–and I saw a side of my dad that was reserved for such times.  We watched dad walk over to Errol’s home, have a brief conversation, and return home. This is what we learned that had ensued. When Errol came to the door dad unleashed on him “Don’t you ever talk to my wife like that again. Don’t you ever look at my house again. When you drive by our house, keep your eyes on the road, don’t bother to look at us or attempt to say hello or wave. As far as you’re concerned, we do not exist”. 

I can still see Errol driving to work or other places,both hands on the steering wheel and his stern face staring straight ahead. Dad had made his point and it landed well. 

So, how did my dad, the middle child in a very poor family of 11 children, who grew up in northern Michigan on an 80 acre farm end up in Saginaw and land a career with the City? That information and more will be revealed in future entries. For today, my goal was to give you but a small glimpse into the man who modeled love, kindness, and respect–even righteous anger–in the way he treated people. 

I wish you could see the twinkle in his hazel eyes that I still miss…hear the buzzing of his table saw…and share a porch that served as front row seats watching the variety of people that strolled over the stage we called life on many a hot summer’s evening.