Birthdate April 19, 1915 My Dad: Otis Ellyson Brocksmith

I adore this photo of my father.  By the time I came to know him, this handsome boy with the mischievous smile rarely showed himself.  Bowed down with years of hard labor and great responsibility, with little demand for his level of intelligence, and with the effects of daily Pabst drinking, he most often seemed stern and unapproachable.

My first memorable impressions occurred as he cleaned up after work.  Our kitchen sink filled with hot water, he'd lava his arms and hands trying to get off the grease and oil. I remember the smell of him.  Heat, Quaker State, lube grease--I loved it.  Still do.  In my young mind he was the best mechanic in the world.  Even today the odor of a repair garage fills me with sad longing.  He plied his trade for forty-two years as the head mechanic for Gardner-Denver Company, a manufacturer of heavy duty compressors.  I cannot remember him ever missing work except when on one of our few family outings, he broke his ankle at the Adams County Fair. When he retired he was old for his age and not well.  Gardners gave him a pin and $420.00 a month pension.

It was not unusual in his day to be pulled out of school and put to work for the benefit of the family, and so my dad left school at the end of the eighth grade and labored at anything that promised some compensation.  Born on a rented farm near Philadelphia, Missouri, his parents were poor and with few prospects.  Grandpa Joseph carpentered when he could get a job having been taught by his father, John Henry Brocksmith.  All in all, none of them really prospered, which may account for my dad's tenacity about keeping his factory job.

If dad had dreams, and who doesn't, all were buried early in his life.  Married young, father of seven, responsibility weighed heavy on him.  There is an apocryphal story that as World War II broke out and two younger brothers Henry and Raymond joined the military, dad tried as well.  The story goes that he was pretty excited, but didn't get to far--too many kids, four at that time.  I never heard him talk about it.  He must have been bitterly disappointed though. I know it had to make my mother happy.  Mom loved him like crazy.  Dad?  We always knew he loved her, too. Being a realist he probably lost most romantic notions not long after the wedding. They had hard times and were both quite opinionated.

Unfortunately, dad and mom's battles erupted over the most insignificant things.  Mom remained a romantic until the day she died.  Daddy's idea of romance was giving her a vacuum cleaner for Christmas.  Mom loved the spotlight.  Dad hated any attention being drawn to himself.  I recall on one of his birthdays, mom cooked his favorite fish dinner and plated it for him on a dish that looked like a fish.  He was not amused.  After making some remark that she was trying to make him look foolish, he grunted and left the table.  Looking back I do not think she could have been too surprised.  She knew him better than anyone. She just kept trying.

After 1977 when he quit drinking his Pabst entirely, he could handle these types of "recognition" better.  It didn't stop the arguments--they'd bicker just to bicker.  Then peace could reign for long periods of time.  Their relationship worked for them. When daddy died in 1988 they'd been married   54 years.  In all the years I can remember, they never used the word divorce.

My brothers and sisters always yearned for a close relationship with dad.  I believe he gave us all he had.  I have no inside information but I have always felt my father suffered some emotional trauma  that left him scarred.  We always kissed him goodnight at bedtime, but fatherly conversations rarely if ever happened.  By the time I came along, his discipline method consisted of a look that would wither me.  I remember only twice being spanked. When home, my father liked to relax in his cool bedroom and listen to ball games.  I used to often take a nap right next to him in the that comfortable room  with the voice of Harry Carey lulling me to sleep.  I did this right up to the time I left home for good. I slept like a baby, totally secure. Another thing he did constantly was read westerns.  All of his children love to read, too.  He told me of a visit to his grandparents deep in the backwoods of Missouri as a child when he walked up to their porch.  Both his grandpa and grandma were on a front porch smoking a pipe and reading.  I guess reading is a family tradition.  The pipe did not stick.

As a kid and teenager I often wished my dad acted more like other dads I knew about.  I was embarrassed when he'd come home from Zimmies (the local watering hole at 12th and Ohio) singing and shuffling obviously inebriated but at that happy stage before he got ugly.  Most often he hit the bed before his merriment turned into sarcasm and orneriness.  He could be a real Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde.  When he quit drinking, Mr. Hyde moved out of our house and all of us got to know our father for the funny and intelligent man he was. Pabst had been his Prozac.  Come to find out, he didn't really need it.

I love my father with all my heart.  Unselfish, steadfast, and honorable, he taught me everything I know about integrity.  He did not suffer fools gladly, but he did not judge them either. I always called him daddy.  Even now, that's how I think of him. I think, daddy I miss you.  Daddy, thank you for all your sacrifices.  Forgive me for ever judging you.  You were my anchor.  I will always honor your memory.  I'm even like you in a few ways.  For instance, I'm up and about by 5 am most mornings just like you.

Dad comes to me in my dreams.  In fact my dreams generally consist of people who have left this planet and the number is growing way to fast.  I don't recall much about these nighttime visits except he is always dignified and surrounded by mom and my deceased siblings, Roy, Jerry, Derald and Darlene. I cannot recall any particular activities in these scenes, but they seem happy and active and together. Now, I am in no hurry to join this group but when the time comes I feel like it will be OK.

I believe my father had a gentle soul.  He neither heaped praise nor pointed out our failures.  It is no small thing when a child wants to emulate the best qualities of a parent. My father had many such qualities.  I see his sardonic sense of humor even moving into the second generation.  His often sarcastic wit is a trait running rampant through the family.  It is generally not mean spirited; it's just so hard to pass up a good joke.

So, happy birthday, daddy.  Wish I knew you were getting Oreos and grilled cheese sandwiches.  If not, hold on.  It won't be so very long until I can see to them.  Hey, I just thought of something.  When the time comes, I can nap again to the voice of Harry Carey.  I love you dad.  You were the perfect father for me.