My Father, Blue Collar Warrior

The hardest working man I've ever met instilled me with his work ethic, and it has meant everything to me.

Note: this piece is from a work in progress regarding my experience in the workplace. I've had a myriad of interesting jobs and I've chronicled a few of them here. My father is where my work ethic came from.

Happy Father's Day to everyone.

“It seems to me

I could live my life

A lot better than I think I am

I guess that's why they call me

They call me the workin' man”

Rush

Dad was up first at 4:45 AM. He woke up easily, always did, and unfolded his creaky 6’4” frame from the king-sized bed and hobbled into the shower. Only in his early 30s, the years on his body probably bore a decade or more than that of wear and tear. A hot shower first thing in the morning always limbered him up, readying him for lifting and stacking hundreds of cases of beer during the next 10 hours.

After a shave and a quick comb of his thinning hair, he donned his blue striped workers shirt with “Randy” embroidered on the right side of the chest. It was thin from wear but perfect for the roasting Florida heat he would battle all day. He finished off his blue-collar (literally) ensemble with a pair of navy blue dickies, and sturdy black workboots. He headed out the door with a thermos full of coffee at 5 PM on the dot.

Growing up a child of the military, dad was precise and efficient, never late for anything.

Carroll Distributing Company was the Budweiser representative for Brevard County, Florida. Dad would get to the gated complex at 5:15 AM and get his truck ready.

After surveying his orders for the day, he worked with the forklift drivers to properly fill his truck. The trailer contained approximately eight separate bays that could hold a couple of pallets of cans or bottles, packaged by the case. Each bay had a vertical rolling door for access. It was important for Dad to know where everything was because the sooner he made his deliveries, the sooner he could clock out.

It was also critical to properly stack the beer cases, so they would not tip during the driving. Nothing worse than opening a bay only to have broken beer bottles fall on you.

Each stop was basically the same. Dad would arrive and talk to the person responsible for receiving. They would give him the order, and he would head out to the truck. He had a dolly that broke down into a longer cart that could hold a lot more product. Dad would then climb onto the truck and it pick through the bays and stack his cart. Step up into the truck, grab a couple of cases, step down and pile them on the cart. Again and again. Then he pushed the cart into the store, and either built a display or stocked the cases in the storeroom.

An average case of canned beer weighs 20 pounds, and a case of bottles weighs 36. Dad was lifting, jostling, stacking, and delivering hundreds of cases every day.

It was no wonder why he would always expect dinner to be ready very soon after he got home, he was probably famished. He was a meat, starch, and vegetable guy. We always had a stockpile of steaks, roasts, and ribs in the freezer. He would eat a one-pound bag of Lima Beans coated in butter and salt just as a snack.

The physical toll was apparent. His hands were wide and strong but also callused and scarred. He could take a baked potato out of the broiling oven without an oven mitt. One time when he was breaking down his cart, he accidentally ripped his thumbnail off causing him to faint on the spot. At least once a year if not more he had to take vacation time to rest his back. I watched many times as he had to crawl to the bathroom because of the debilitating pain.

There was an emotional toll as well, stemming from a tragic accident. Thanksgiving week of 1978 he was driving through a mall parking lot and stopped at a stop sign. He likely checked his mirrors – dad was an excellent driver – and then made a right turn. Unbeknownst to him, a 12-year-old girl was walking on the edge of the sidewalk. I don’t know the particulars, but the girl was pulled under Dad’s trailer and instantly killed.

I was at home from school that day with mom. My two-year-old sister was napping. There was an unexpected knock on the door, Dad’s boss, Cloyce, one of the sweetest men I ever met.

Mom instantly thought that Dad was hurt and shooed me to my room. They were only a few feet away in the living room and I jammed my ear against the door to listen. I could hear the drone of Cloyce’s voice and then Mom let out a horrible wail.

“No! No! No!” She cried over and over, as Cloyce held her.

The next morning it was all laid bare on the front page of the paper, top of the fold. A small picture of the little girl’s face, as well as dad’s full name and address (for the record they spelled our street name incorrectly).

It was eventually ruled an accident, but the pain from the event stayed with Dad until he passed. You could tell it crushed him knowing that he had inadvertently killed a little girl who had pretty eyes and brown hair just like his daughter.

Every Thanksgiving he would be distracted and withdrawn. And I am nowhere near discounting the loss of the girl’s family. It was a tragedy all the way around.

---

Working for the King of Beers had its share of benefits. Once a year the entire distributor would go to the Anheuser-Busch annual conferences. As one of the top drivers, Dad always was invited. Do you like Anheuser-Busch merchandise? Our house was more decorated than a dive bar. We had Anheuser-Busch mirrors, paintings, dinner platters, gorgeous German Steins, glasses, and other merchandise.

But guess what we never had? Beer in the house. Dad hated it.

His pay was in direct correlation with how much beer he sold, so he was putting in even more time and effort for holidays and special occasions like the Super Bowl. He could easily double or triple his pay for the week.

Budweiser was also inadvertently responsible for Dad meeting Mom. He was delivering to the Tick-Tock lounge in Cocoa Beach, and he noticed the buxom brunette behind the bar. She was taken by his dimples, wavy brown hair, and mutton chop sideburns. Just your typical Florida love story.

Mom brought him home and introduced him to me, her six-year-old son from another marriage. A year later my sister was born and I started calling Randy, Dad.

After a decade of slinging suds, Dad’s body finally gave out. He took a job at a cement company as a driver, with the promise of graduating into management training. It was a significant pay cut but dramatically increased his quality of life. Within a year he was promoted, and in two years he was moved to Deland to run a large plant. A couple of years later, another promotion to the busiest plant in the company in Jacksonville. His calculated gamble had paid off.

But Dad was a bit of a restless soul. Perhaps it was due to his military upbringing. Grandpa was a 35-year Air Force veteran retiring as a full-bird colonel. As with any military family, they bounced around following wherever Grandpa would land. They finally settled in Vermont, where Dad was able to attend high school. Dad was a star in the small school. He captained the basketball team and was voted prom king. The mountainous outdoors beckoned him and he spent the majority of his time skiing, soon becoming a certified instructor (a tremendously difficult feat).

After high school he skied full-time, bouncing around the country. When the cold caused his knees to start barking at him, he moved down to Florida, eventually finding work at Carroll. He still kept his sense of adventure by racing enduro, or off-road, motorcycles. These races would take place overnight through the woods of Florida. Like most things athletically, Dad was a natural and soon had a small sponsor to pay for his thrill-seeking habit.

Life in Jacksonville was one of my favorite times. I had moved back home after a bad breakup (mom always told me I had a place to stay with her). I was 24, and my younger sister 17. Because of the age difference, we never really had much in common. Then, the Smashing Pumpkins released the album Siamese Dream. One day I heard her come home from school, trudge upstairs, shut the door, and then start blasting the song “Disarm,” from that album. I had been a Pumpkins fan for a couple of years. I was impressed she liked them as well. Music was our first bonding time.

Dad was also flourishing. Company car, running three plants at once, banking a healthy paycheck, and having tons of contacts in the area. Free tickets to watch the Players Championship at Sawgrass, or free golf at one of the nice courses in the area. He was happier and much looser than I had ever seen.

But somehow it wasn’t enough for him. I think he saw how much money the plant was raking in, and how much was not going into his pocket. So, once again, he reinvented himself. Cashed out his 401(k), looked around for a business to buy, and then settled on a cleaning franchise.

Historically, my father was not great with money. He liked stuff. He LOVED technology. We were always early adopters in the computer age. He brought home an Apple IIe, and then he bought one of the first Apple Macintosh systems, with a whopping price tag of $5000. My mom almost threw him out of the house for that one. We were the ones in the double-wide trailer with a Mercedes 280 SE parked out front (A mechanic at Carroll was from Germany and had a connection).

But he had his reasons for buying the business, one of them was to be nearer to his parents and sisters in Central Florida. He also wanted to grow it into a large enterprise and take care of the whole family. He was always an amazing provider. So, he left the cement business behind him and packed up and moved to Lakeland. I wound up back in Orlando for the time being.

Within a few months, Dad had a handful of accounts and had roped my sister into being employee number 1. They cleaned a couple of accounts during the day, took a break, and then headed out at 5 p.m. to service the evening accounts.

Business bloomed, accounts were added, and the working day grew longer and more arduous. More hands were needed, and I happened to be looking for something new. Dad brought me on and we were able to staff two crews and split the work.

A year later I left the business to become a sports journalist. Ironically enough, that opportunity was only granted because we cleaned The Tampa Tribune Lakeland bureau.  I chronicled that adventure in my first book, Stringer: A Sportswriter’s Memoir.

I was replaced by my brother in law to be, and the business continued to expand. Things hit warp speed when they secured a cleaning contract for an orange juice processing plant. The owner was a shrewd Brazilian fellow who instantly bonded with Dad. It was a massive operation on the whole. Trucks would pull in filled to the brim with oranges, then they would be offloaded and squeezed into vats and manipulated until it became a concentrate.

Those workers were supplied by a staffing company, and the owner was not happy with them. He loved my father and how hard his crew worked, so he talked my dad into becoming his staffing company. Within a few months he was essentially out of the cleaning business and now staffing this large plant and making substantial money.

They bought a new house with a custom pool, and hot tub. They went on cruises all over the Caribbean. They were financially secure for the first time in a long time.

Then one day Dad had some numbness in his feet. At first, it didn't concern him, but eventually, he went to the doctor to have it checked out. It was difficult to find at first, and when they did, it was bad news.

A tumor, resembling a drinking straw, had grown out of a kidney and was now pressing against the spine, causing the numbness.

Surgery was the next step. I happened to be in town the day of the operation on a consulting gig. I had moved to Atlanta in 2000. I popped over to the hospital during a break. He had been in surgery for a couple of hours and was supposed to be getting out, but when I arrived I was greeted by the worried faces of my family.

Eventually the surgeon came out for an update. The kidney tumor was bleeding excessively and they were fighting hard to keep blood and platelets in my father. Another couple of hours later, the surgeon came out with a sweaty brow and a worried look on his face. Dad was out of surgery, but they burned through 31 units of blood, and they were hoping his organs could handle processing everything.

The exhausted doctor took us to see him and I could barely recognize who was in the bed. Dad's face was bloated and jammed with tubes keeping him alive.

Dad was always large, tall, big, and strong. How was this happening?

A urine bag hung off the side of the bed and it was quietly filling. We were all counting on his kidneys, the ones that were likely riddled with cancer, to keep him alive by processing all those fluids, in order to survive the operation.

I had been at the hospital for several hours and had to get back to my hotel, grab my clothes, and catch my flight home. I kissed Dad on the cheek, hoping this wasn’t my last image of him.

He was awake the next day, astonishing the doctors. The good news didn’t last. Stage 4 renal cancer, probably due to decades of smoking.

On the phone Dad was positive, vowing to fight and beat this. I managed not to cry until I hung up.

Dad started treatment right away, taking on and in the poisoned pair of chemotherapy and radiation. It was June and he booked a trip to Vegas for the entire family, including spouses and his mother. We had never been. It was scheduled for the Fall, hopeful to have the horrors of treatment behind him.

His body deteriorated from the cycles of medicine. After two rounds he had had enough. The cancer spread undeterred to other areas. His hip. His shoulder. Dad was something I had never seen before: frail and vulnerable.

We went to Vegas without him but with his blessing. The trip was a disaster. The feelings were raw and exposed and we fought and cried under the glittery lights.

In early December that year, my wife found a deal of a lifetime on a Hawaiian cruise, however it was sailing near Christmas week. I called Mom, to discuss my missing Christmas, and to get an update on Dad. They both insisted we take the trip and I would come down right when I got back.

The day before our flight, Mom called me. Dad took a sudden downturn and Hospice was at the house. I told her I would cancel the trip and fly right down. She put the kibosh on that and insisted we go. She told me Dad wanted me to go, but I don't know how alert he was at the time.

I called two days later from our hotel room in Waikiki. Mom put Dad on the phone. He wasn’t able to talk, but Mom reassured me he was there and smiled when he heard my voice.

I did my best to keep things light. Football was on and it was only 9 a.m. here! My wife and I were having Jack-in-the-Box burgers for breakfast! I told him I loved him.

We were sailing the next day so I told Mom we would be out of touch until we got back.

I called home from the Honolulu airport 5 days later. I found an unused gate for some privacy and placed a call I didn’t want to make.

I dialed the number, waited a couple of heartbeats, and pressed send. When mom answered I knew the news was bad.

Dad died December 18, 2002, in his home surrounded by his family (minus his idiot son who still regrets not being there). He was listening to his favorite music, likely Bob Seger, or the Eagles.

I cried alone in the deserted gate. Cancer had taken the rock of our family.

Tracing back our timeline, we figured at the moment he passed we were in Kauai, leaving the harbor under a glorious rainbow. Thanks for the show, Dad.

When I got home, I immediately packed a bag and drove the seven hours to Lakeland, FL, a drive I should have made weeks earlier. Pulling into their neighborhood, the song One Tree Hill by U2 came on the radio. It’s a beautiful and haunting tribute written by the singer, Bono, dedicated to his best friend who died in a motorcycle accident. The last verse laments his friend’s sudden and unfair death.

I don't believe
In painted roses
Or bleeding hearts
While bullets
Rape the night
Of the merciful

I'll see you again
When the stars
Fall from the sky
And the moon
Has turned red
Over One Tree Hill

Immediately after that verse I broke out into heaving sobs and pulled the car over to gather myself.

Dad taught me how to work hard and do the job right the first time. He didn’t suffer half-assed efforts and would let you know by taking over the job himself to show you the right way to do it. One of his favorite sayings popped out whenever I said I wanted something: “Put want in one hand and shit in the other. Which one gets full first?” To me it was his way of saying, work for what you want.

He was tough but fair, and overly generous to his friends and family. He loved providing. Every Christmas we would get the “things are tight this year” speech only to find a pile of gifts under the tree. He would sit quietly in his chair sipping his coffee contentedly while we deliriously tore through wrapping paper and ribbons.

Growing up, Dad and I weren’t terribly close. The step-child/step-parent relationship is tricky and sometimes difficult to manage. We did our best. Dad was much closer to my little sister, his biological daughter, understandably so. Over time and as I matured I think I began to earn his respect, and we became much closer. Working with him was one of my favorite times because I got to show him how hard I could work. I wanted to impress him.

Dad supported me emotionally and financially during my divorce. He also picked my second wife. I brought my friend, Erin, to go to a Baltimore Orioles spring training game. Sitting next to him sharing a bag of peanuts, he leaned in and quietly said, “That’s the one you should be with,” referring to Erin.

Roughly four years later Dad was my best man when I married her on a yacht club veranda.

He didn’t live to see my second anniversary.

My sister had her first son in 2003, and another in 2009. My boys were born in 2008 and 2010. Four grandsons. We fondly imagine how over the moon he would be with four little dudes to play with and absolutely spoil.

Being a father myself I try to perpetuate the best parts of my parents. In my case, it’s my mother’s endless supply of love and support. From Dad, it’s his innate, fierce, drive to provide for his family.

There is an underlying driver for the Blue Collar worker: fear. Living paycheck-to-paycheck is a stressful situation so losing your job was not an option. Both my parents were so happy when I got a job with a grocery store because they said, “people will always have to eat.”

I’ve kept that motivation inside me throughout my career which probably explains why I have worked throughout my entire illness. I first lost the ability to type and had to move to voice dictation software. It was actually faster than typing and I could do other things with my voice such as move the mouse etc.

I lost the ability to use the mouse so I had to switch to eye gaze hardware to manipulate the mouse on the screen. Between those two I still remained very productive. Of course work is also a crucial outlet when you are homebound. Interacting with my colleagues every day puts gas in the tank.

No one is forcing me to work. My wife has told me for years I can stop whenever I feel a need.

I know one day I will have to stop working. But even then I will still be doing something to move forward.

That’s what a working man does.