When I was in school as a child, we had to memorize poems. One that has always stuck in my mind was, "The House by the Side of the Road," by Sam Walter Foss. I always thought of it, as 'The man who lived in a house by the side of the road,' and that's what I typed in the Search engine to find the poem. The 7th and 8th lines of the 2nd and 3rd stanza are, "Let me live in a house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man." The lines in the first stanza are slightly different. The fourth stanza changes to, "Nor live in my house by the side of the road, Like a man who dwells alone." The last stanza is like the second and third stanza, except says, 'my house.'
This poem has always reminded me of my dad, because he truly was a man who lived in a house by the side of the road and was a friend to man. Remember this was the thirties. So many people had so little; jobs were scarce. As long as Dad had food in the house and someone else didn't, he shared what he had. If a stray kid had no place to stay, because he had been kicked out by his dad, he could always find a place to sleep at Albert's. If someone needed a shirt, or a pair of shoes, somehow Dad found the wherewithal to provide them. When a family with children had 'no Christmas,' a box of inexpensive gifts appeared on the front porch. On Sunday, he ended up asking nearly everyone home for Sunday dinner.
Family members came and went at various times. One nephew came for a two week visit and ended up staying a year. Another much older cousin, the one that I remember the most, stayed for some time also, a niece stayed for a year so she could finish grade school [her family lived too far out of town to commute daily], and various others from time to time. This was before my time and the cousin told me about it many years later.
I once overheard my maternal grandmother say to my mother, "The trouble with Albert is, he is just too free-hearted for his own good." He was the kind of person, of whom people said, "He would give you the shirt off his back." And he did.
We didn't have a lot of money ourselves, but Dad always had a job. We also had a big family, but in spite of Dad doing what he could to help someone else, I can't see that we were actually hurt by it. We had a place to live, food to eat [though maybe not always what we would have preferred], clothes to wear, when so many struggled for so little. Like all human beings, he had his faults, but I'm proud to call him, "Dad."
This poem has always reminded me of my dad, because he truly was a man who lived in a house by the side of the road and was a friend to man. Remember this was the thirties. So many people had so little; jobs were scarce. As long as Dad had food in the house and someone else didn't, he shared what he had. If a stray kid had no place to stay, because he had been kicked out by his dad, he could always find a place to sleep at Albert's. If someone needed a shirt, or a pair of shoes, somehow Dad found the wherewithal to provide them. When a family with children had 'no Christmas,' a box of inexpensive gifts appeared on the front porch. On Sunday, he ended up asking nearly everyone home for Sunday dinner.
Family members came and went at various times. One nephew came for a two week visit and ended up staying a year. Another much older cousin, the one that I remember the most, stayed for some time also, a niece stayed for a year so she could finish grade school [her family lived too far out of town to commute daily], and various others from time to time. This was before my time and the cousin told me about it many years later.
I once overheard my maternal grandmother say to my mother, "The trouble with Albert is, he is just too free-hearted for his own good." He was the kind of person, of whom people said, "He would give you the shirt off his back." And he did.
We didn't have a lot of money ourselves, but Dad always had a job. We also had a big family, but in spite of Dad doing what he could to help someone else, I can't see that we were actually hurt by it. We had a place to live, food to eat [though maybe not always what we would have preferred], clothes to wear, when so many struggled for so little. Like all human beings, he had his faults, but I'm proud to call him, "Dad."
Footnote: The picture I've just added was taken in I believe 1938 on the Big River gravel bar where the local church held baptisms. The original picture is full length.
And, I am proud to call him my grandfather. I knew some of this from things you would say from time to time but not all of it. I also remember you talking about that poem. In addition to being proud of my grandfather, I am also proud of you. You have a wonderful way with words and did a beautiful job of describing your father. BJC
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