Fathers and Sons
It was hard for me to believe too.
When I wrote the “out of site but not out of mind” post a week or so back, I realized that it had been over THREE YEARS since I went on “hiatus” from weekly blog posts for reasons I really didn’t want to share in the “blogosphere.”
And, I’m not sure I can even now; but, something inside pushes at me saying that it might help the… emptyness?… the regret?… the void?… go away.
It has to do with this man. He’s my dad. James Ray Jarrett, M Ed. — World War II veteran, master carpenter-educator, Farmer, Church Leader, Everyone’s Friend… Builder of houses and Toys… Doting Husband… frustrated patient.
James Ray Jarrett, M. Ed.
June 28, 1921 — March 23, 2018
James Ray Jarrett, M. Ed (1921-1918)
World War II Vet, Gentleman Farmer, Master Carpenter, Bishop
Dad was born to James Loren and Mable Vanda (Homer) Jarrett on June 28th, 1921 in Nephi, Juab County, Utah. He was raised on a farm surrounded by the mountains of the Central Utah portion of the “Everlasting Hills,” lots of cousins and friends and life experiences which, as it would turn out, enraptured his future grandkids. When he left the farm and found a job at Lockheed, building aircraft, he vowed that “if he never saw another chicken in his life it would be too soon.”
His sense of fairness and pride in country made him feel guilty about being “back home working” when his cousins and friends began serving the WWII war effort overseas; so, he found a recruiter and joined the U.S. Navy — who surprised him by stationing him right back in his old job at Lockheed because the Navy’s contractor didn’t want to lose him, and he became a foreman (at lower soldier’s pay.)
He was able to finish his service obligation honorably building and repairing lots of military aircraft, marry his childhood sweetheart and resume his college education toward a degree in industrial arts and education.
Didn’t Have a Lot, But Had Enough
Despite his previous promise, with four small children finally settled in the very first home of their own in an urban suddivision, his education complete and a stable job, he and mom wanted his kids to have a small bit of the life-ethic that had made him — so he built a chicken coop! And we populated it with several batches of chickens.
Actually it was more like a chicken penthouse because now he was a trained carpenter, with a farmer’s and war veteran’s ethic; and he just couldn’t do it any other way. Knowing him, the joints were probably dovetailed. It had several rooms, open air, a self-cleaning floor and secluded perching area. I vaguely remember chores relating to feeding and cleaning under it, but my memory right now is a tad bit spotty. I do remember, at least twice, mom took us to the movie theater to see a show one autumn Saturday and getting home to the surprise that the chickens were gone… relocated to freezer.
We had a “Rich Plan” freezer which biannually was restocked with a half of beef and other meats. Dad always had a “fruit room” which, I guess, served somewhat like the root-cellar he knew from his childhood. He modified a passage from an insulated room he built in the basement directly to the outside winter weather in order to keep it cold enough to store everything that needed to last.
He built everything. In “Q Court” we were the only family on the entire street with a fence where us kids could play safely in the yard (a white picket fence of course). I remember seeing dad show his friends how to dress and portion the deer they had just shot for their winter food. In the Washington Terrace house, he completely finished the five rooms in the basement, with re-claimed barn wood… yea, from a real barn down by Ephraim (way, way before it became fashionable to do so).
Dad and his auto-mechanic friend each built a boat one summer. They helped each other with the heavy parts and I’m guessing dad taught him about wood and carpentry. Dad built our furniture and sheds and cabins and barns…
We didn’t have a lot; but, we had enough. Dad was a teacher, mom joined him working, we kids never even had an inkling what miniscule income they were stretching in order to live (shame on us). We grew food (at least mom and dad did) and mom stretched it to feed a family of six.
Self-Sufficiency
I don’t remember that we vacationed extensively but they packed four kids around, perhaps more than I would have done if it were me. We camped. We visited Disneyland (probably the year after it opened) when we visited grandma and grandpa “J” in Los Angeles. And, we had the boat that we could share with friends.
I remember Yellowstone, Pine View Dam, Lake Powell, Mount Rushmore, fish ladders in Washington, gathering pine nuts in Yost, Bear Lake, train ride at Knott’s Berry Farm, Disneyland and many excursions into the surrounding mountains — all as kids.
They preserved and canned and froze and repaired and built.
I’m not sure that there’s even one in a hundred of you readers that even comprehend what the word “Self-sufficiency” means to people like my dad. I’m still learning, mostly that I only have an inkling!
“Providing” Trumps “PDA”
I don’t think you would describe dad as very demonstrative — what the millennials call PDA. Which, I suppose, is a characteristic of the “Greatest Generation” (Tom Brokaw’s words) in general. And, I don’t remember him being all that patient with me when I was struggling with the “times tables” either.
• BUT, absolutely the only time I ever saw him angry, or even argue with someone, in all the 74 years I knew him, was with that crap-for-brains teenager who illegally ran his boat at full speed onto shore, literally right over the top of me floating just offshore where I had been dropped like the regulations demanded for dismounting water-skiers.
I couldn’t hear all that was said because I wasn’t standing very close and was a bit stunned; but, I do remember hearing the idiot plaintively saying “is that all you’ve got – anger in your heart?” I remember it clearly because it was such an incredibly STUPID thing to say. Today the knee-jerk thing to do would be call the cops and give the kid a life-long police record. Caring, I guess, wasn’t just directed toward his own family.
• He only got physically punishing to me one time in my life. He brought home a 6 or so foot, 1½” tent pole one day from work. It turned out to be a pole belonging to Bishop Harris that dad had repaired. It was in two pieces. One piece had a metal sleeve on the end for the other piece to slip in to. He set it down outside and left it unattended for some reason. It looked like a good pole vault stick to me; so…
I had no problem reading his body language as he picked up the broken piece; so…
As I passed him on the run my rear-end got the message with only a glancing thwop. He didn’t follow… and that was that. I don’t remember anything more said… no need, I already knew the point of the exercise.
• I remember being shown, on one excursion to the reservoir, how to use a hatchet to make kindling for the fire that night on the beach; and then using it with bare feet and slicing into the web of my toes.
• I remember “crossing the wake” while water-skiing with my brother behind the boat (and on the skis) that dad built. I was the person with the short rope who would ski under the longer rope held high from the person skiing behind. One time, directly under the rope at the wake, I fell and immediately panicked that I’d get hit on the head by skis coming from behind me; so, ducked under water only to feel the sting of the rope under my arm and the impact of the handle. It seems that my brother had fallen first so the long rope hadn’t been in the air and my arm had wrapped over it as the handle slammed into me.
Dad was the one who extracted me from the water, drove to the ER, got my bandage and sling… and then “interfaced” with mom when we got home.
Toward me, he acted like it was “no big deal”; so, I decided it wasn’t for me either — while I went to school, church and other places with the family over the next couple months sporting an arm in an ACE bandage swollen to 8 or more inches in diameter and waiting for it to subside. I remember wiggling the skin of my arm back and forth in play thinking it was funny, because it was numb — it still is.
• I remember going to work with him; which, for many years meant: “sand and clean up.” One Saturday, when I was nine or 10, we went to his high school on the other side of town; and, after parking, got separated. I waited, for what seemed an excruciating long time, then went looking for him but couldn’t find the car where we had parked it.
What else was there to do? I thought he had gone home and forgotten me; so, I started walking home! After all, it was just straight down Washington Boulevard about a hundred blocks though the heart of Ogden and a little jog to the right.
Google now says it’s seven miles from 7th street to Washington Terrace; but, I’m sure it was shorter back then. I had walked perhaps a half-hour, wondering all the while why he’d go off and leave me, when he drove up behind me and asked “where you going?” I simply said “I thought you left” and got in the car… That was it.
We went back and parked on the side of another teacher’s truck, which had pulled in after we had and hidden our car from view at the door. Nothing else was said… and perhaps neither of us ever told mom.
• I remember asking dad if I could take the “tramway car” across the Weber River where we were picnicking (don’t know why mom wasn’t there). He asked if I thought I could manage it and I said yes. It was a wooden box, with benches that held four, hung on metal “A” frames, below a cable on two metal pully-wheels; and which had to be pulled by its occupants, hand-over-hand between them to get it to move. At least one of my sibs wanted to go with but was too small to do anything to help.
Going over was easy and so was coming back; until I fumbled on one of the overhand moves and the back pully ran over my hand smashing and cutting it into the cable. Dripping blood and yelling “ow, ow, ow, ow” I had no clue what I would do to get back up the incline with only one hand. Dad talked me through it and I did it.
• I remember asking who I thought was the cutest girl in my class to the Jr. High School dance and it was dad that drove us. Only later did I find out that she was the daughter of dad’s boss!
• When our ward was building the new church house – back when members could assist with the labor – dad was the most accomplished wood-worker in the entire valley; so he, and (by default) I, helped with a lot of the building. He was doing finish-carpentry in the chapel, and I was out in the foyer rearranging lumber, when the massive pile of half-inch, 4′ x 8′ plywood sections I had leaned against the wall so neatly, fell down on top of me, impaling me into the floor. Not even being able to get my breath I, none-the-less, managed my, by then trademarked: “ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”
With prior experience, and hearing the crash, dad knew what it meant; so, ran through the chapel to rescue me once again. Lifting the three-ton of lumber off me, he merely looked down, could see that I was breathing, not bleeding and moving all fours, then said: “how did that happen?” I simply said, “they fell over”… and that was that. Except for him, I’d probably still be there indented into the floor with standards and ropes placed around directing church-go’ers to around me!
• It was dad, then in the county school administration office, who perhaps dealt with the numbskull high-school coach who, in front of my PE class, ordered me to “stand up Jarrett,” when I was bent over, wheezing and trying to breath after running laps. He was a coach, so I did… and that was all I remember until later being alone on the field with the idiot standing over me and asking, “You OK?”… I told him, “No.” I don’t know what dad said to him, if anything, but he was much more civil to me for the rest of the year, and I never had him for a teacher again.
• I had a job from when I was 12 and old enough for a paper route. A source of pride, I bought most of my own clothes and even lunch money all through secondary school. I worked through college too but graduate school was a different story. I had saved, and did work through the first summer break, but mom and dad had to help with expenses.
I suppose they knew it was inevitable based on my coursework; but, without ever saying a word to me, they somehow had planned, saved and were able to help me afford to live away from home for the first time. It really was never discussed, and back then I never even thought to ask them how they did it.
Empty Nest
Once your first kid reaches college age that pretty much spells the end of your family as you once knew it. I went thither and yon (mostly yon) and the sibs soon followed suit which meant mom and dad had to “compartmentalize” their interactions with us.
Perhaps the empty house held too much memory; but, for whatever reason, Dad wanted to get the farm back in his life. It didn’t take long for both of them to have “reinvented” themselves on a rural piece of land next to a body of water… with more chicken coops.
They garnered another life-long “daughter” (Paqui) in the form of an exchange student from Spain. Mom wrote some music, directed choirs and transcribed blessings for a patriarch. Dad built, farmed, raised horses and provided foodstuffs for any family member living close and much of the neighborhood. They both rapidly became fully entrenched in their new friends and went on a church mission as well as a cruise and visit with Paqui in Spain.
Dad built/renovated a small house in Ogden after his father died so grandma could come to live back in Utah. Because of Dad, Grandma was able to live independent until the very end. They helped her into a care facility which one or both could visit pretty much every day. I’m sure that experience modulated how both he and mom anticipated and planned for their own future. Both hoped for independence through the end.
Each fall, after harvest, they took a road-trip to visit me wherever I had landed that year; keeping in mind that I’ve had resident fishing licenses in 10 states from California to New York, from Iowa to Tennessee and much in between.
When they came to visit, Dad built decks, sheds, fences, gates and anything else he thought was needed for any new house I had chosen to live in; and Mom decorated and saw to it that it was comfortable and nice. Houses all over the country both figuratively and literally have each of their fingerprints and talents all over them!
Their visits to me took them to places they never had a chance to see on teacher’s salaries with four kids in tow. They discovered Branson and mom got to sing with Bobby Vinton (like she also did with Don Ho in Hawaii). She rarely told anyone what kind of memories that brought back for her – and I won’t now either (perhaps sometime later.)
They saw Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry and Opryland and took a daytrip to see the Kentucky Corvett factory and museum. They witnessed “Oaklahoma” on its outdoor original stage with live horses, Wool-A-Rock, Winter Quarters, Henry Doorly Omaha Zoo and the Will Rodgers Museum… and ate rattlesnake. They saw Niagra Falls, the Hill Cumorah Pageant, Vermont’s fall maple leaves, Covered Bridges and Ben and Jerry’s factory… and stayed in a posh condo in Manhattan to see Phantom of the Opera. They saw Winter Quarters and Zoos, wild animal parks and aquariums all over the place, including the many Smithsonian’s buildings. They visited all the Church history sites, from the grove to the hill, the jail, winter quarters and stayed in Nauvoo after the Temple was restored.
Dad showed me his old navy stomping grounds by San Diego and their mission area in Oakland; I showed them the sights, hospitals, zoos and coastline around San Francisco.
No Regrets
I guess it’s about time I stopped procrastinating and get to the most strenuous and rewarding experience of my life with Dad. The sub-heading “No Regrets” is something mom told me a few times when tensions got a little high: “I just don’t want there to be any regrets”, and I know she had none. But I’ve got a few.
The managed care company I had completely focused on building was unexpectedly sold, then resold; which, left me with a bit of a “parachute” but the need to relocate, yet again, and I was tired. Maybe it was mom’s idea, but a sibling was sent to tell me, basically, that: “nobody in their right mind would sit in Oklahoma with nothing to do if they didn’t have to.”
Excessively shortening the story: I went home intending to stay in Mom and Dad’s Herriman basement a couple of months until finding work in Utah, but found none. They were settling into an entire new life – friends, ward – having moved away from all they knew in order to be closer to “the kids.”
I found that the few managed care medical jobs in the state were flush and IHC had Utah completely sewn up in all other aspects. Over and over, I was told “nothing for you in this state.” With my resume, I had offers in several other states; but, something kept telling me “stay home.” I rationalized it because I was just… tired.
The bottom line is that, subtly and over time, (the only way it could ever happen for either dad or me) I became mom and dad’s caregiver for their final struggles with the earthly dilemma — not something I would have chosen, I guess, or frankly even saw coming.
Dad had a surgery for cancer and was told that they got it all and he could live another “X” number of years. Dad said: “I’ll be 100!” and the doc said he guessed he would. After that dad told all his friends that he had a “doctors warranty till he was a hundred.”
Slowly, dad developed other problems and I noticed a change in the way their new doctors were treating them. My employment had been to evaluate doctor’s performance, solve patient’s problems, assess quality, accredit and contract. I’d been in thousands of doctor’s offices, accredited clinics — and I knew how a good doctor should act; definitely not condescending, patronizing or dismissive like who they were seeing.
Over time I was finally able to help them obtain appointments with a few core doctors who, let’s just say it and get it over with, actually did “gave a dam” about them. Dad’s short-term memory and skills diminished slowly. His previous active lifestyle kept him looking very young for his age and he had a truly surprisingly strong body for a guy in his 90’s.
Compressing the story even further, his lungs seemed to struggle more and more, eventually placing him on oxygen with tanks, tubes and compressors that had to be dealt with and which complicated his life. Of necessity he also had to deal with pharmacies, other health care providers, DME providers and Apria — oh my, APRIA! Mom spent hours and hours for months dealing with problems generated by that company, and their foreign customer service department! I gradually began removing burdens in that area too.
When dad saw doctors, most of the time his symptoms included pain in his stomach; even when their diagnosis didn’t explain that symptom! He disliked seeking medical care, only partly because they often didn’t help much; but perhaps more because how they made him feel, incompetent and helpless. So, many times we ended up in the ED on weekends or evenings because he had to.
One evening he had stomach pain, hadn’t eaten and we took him to the ED where they diagnosed coronary artery blockage. They repeatedly asked him about pain, he said yes then described stomach pain despite their best efforts to extract a description of chest or arm pain, which he didn’t have.
The ED doc’s moved so fast they had him sporting a shunt and recovering in the cardiac unit with his new shunts faster than I’d ever seen it done before. He developed arrythmias which came with more medications — the kind that easily exceeded their combined Social Security checks.
I was able to help a bit with that; but, couldn’t do anything about his limitations for oxygen tubes. Some of his greatest discouragement came from the fact that his oxygen tube didn’t reach the garden. He could use the tanks but, frankly, they were so cumbersome even I wouldn’t have used them.
We “snowbirded” down south in the winter, which provided more opportunity for Dad and I to be together more than I remember we’d been in most of my life. I had two ATVs and he and I rode perhaps 4 or 5 times a week over all the desert within 30 miles of Mesquite. He thoroughly enjoyed it but slowly became more and more exhausted and even fearful of heights (common on the trails we rode.) He thoroughly enjoyed riding and so did I.
When I bought the house in St. George it became more difficult to ride and we didn’t do much afterwards. He fell off a ladder and needed surgery on his leg; from which he recovered well, but quite a bit less vigorous.
I have a hard time getting to the bottom-line, don’t I? Both mom and dad’s health continued to lessen. Mom was diagnosed with Parkinsons Disease, which I could see wore heavy on dad. The winter we spent up in Salt Lake City was nearly all spent at the doctors; but, going south (especially when we moved to St. George) was hard on them socially and on morale. They had so many good friends in Herriman but, despite all their efforts, never quite “broke in” to the ward in Washington.
Dad could find less and less to do when in Washington. Mom asked that I “find something for dad to do.” I did but he really had a hard time doing anything in the shop. They both cherished the visits with Glena Combe when she came down south.
Goodbye, We’re Good
Obviously, when we left Herriman for St. George the winter of 2018, dad had no idea that he wouldn’t be coming back. That was a tough winter. Dad felt more and more useless and frustrated. He had health troubles which he didn’t see physicians as helping. Although he was upset that I wouldn’t leave him home alone when I needed to take mom for her hair appointment, he did come with me and even went in to do some shopping when we got to Walgreens. He bought and paid for something on his own while I was busy getting things for mom. It turned out to be a Valentine card for mom, a tradition they had, with a hand-written, very heart-felt, expression of kindness and love — the last he gave her.
His interactions with the IHC medical system available in St. George were not at all like what they experienced from Jordan Valley and Dr. Andrews back in Herriman. Mom felt helpless. Dad was more and more unhappy and discontented. I know now (in 2022) what he was going through, but I really had no idea back then. He and I clashed on occasion. I too felt frustrated and impotent to help.
He was admitted to the hospital but put “on hold” over a holiday weekend until the “real doctor” came back and took charge. Even though he basically hadn’t eaten in almost a week, they still wanted to do more tests but FINALLY got to the cause of his “stomach problem” he had been trying to convince everybody he had for years — a stricture from his previous colon surgery, years before.
The surgeon said his surgery only took about 5 minutes to correct and went perfect; but, the anesthesiologist had problems and now dad couldn’t swallow. It’s hard for me to talk about even now; what, three years later? They wanted to do more surgery, put in a gastric tube so he could get nourishment, but then he wouldn’t be able to eat again… I had to intervene when an X-ray tech(?) couldn’t get a tube in and was causing him pain. I heard him tell mom: “Don’t let them do this to you.”
…
Oh, Dad. I’m so grateful to have had the opportunity to help both you and mom. In some small measure perhaps, it reimbursed even a portion of your faith and help in my attending medical school; but, from where I stand I still owe you both. Big time.
I know I did help you get through this tough medical system; but, I wish I could have/would have done more. I hope you understood the many times I was ashamed of my profession for the way you were treated. And I wish that I would have made a greater effort in the last years to help you feel worth and accomplishment.
I don’t ever remember the words “I love you” coming in your voice; but, you never heard them from mine either. However, I do…
and I think we’re good!