My Father's Voice

Finding my father's voice is no easy task.

I'm in the throws of writing the story of my dad's life during the "dirty thirties." With the help of my writing group, The Wordsmiths, I'm honing what he might have been thinking, for example, as he drove to his first wife's funeral or how he might have sounded in conversations with other working stiffs or his family.

I knew my dad as a jovial fellow, who liked to play pranks, dance my mom around the kitchen, smoke, joke and drink whiskey. He was also someone always charge or attempting to be. That came from years of running construction crews, working on heavy equipment or driving truck. He made one of the first successful long haul treks to Alaska on the Alcan Highway with bombs for Uncle Sam. In my childish mind's eye, since he was gone a lot because of his work, when he came home - he was the returning hero. That wasn't necessarily who he was as a young man in his twenties.

 My first draft of Cat Skinner, Chapter 1 was diplomatically, but brutally critiqued, not to mention their un-sureness about the book title. "Would your father have pleaded with his mother for assistance? From what we know of your dad, he was usually giving orders. And what did he call her: Ma, Mother, Mom? Who's speaking here? Are you sure that's not your voice and personality instead of your dad's?"

Great feedback creating an even greater challenge for me. Fortunately I have a tape recording of my father telling stories of his youth to help with the syntax, but getting into his head and creating a scene which the reader can see through my father's eyes is stretching my imagination and skill.

While the outline of the story is in my head, my own journey to get it written is an adventure in researching the 30's, asking relatives a myriad of questions, particularly my sister, Lore; and spending a lot of time in decades past - if only mentally. It's fun, exciting and absolutely daunting.

You'll be the first to know when and if I ever really find my father's voice.

My Fun Loving Father

Driving to a photo shoot in Bellevue yesterday, I was musing about my dad, Webster Warren Bateman. Father's Day is around the corner and I'd just heard an announcer on the radio telling a funny story about his dad and asking listeners to retell their stories.

My dad was born May 28, 1911 in Marshall, Minnesota, the oldest male of six children. He had an older sister, a younger sister, and two younger brothers. He was a wild and crazy guy. In his teens, he’d left home with a brother to work in the circus traveling from town to town, hoisting tents, and doing whatever menial labor was available. I remember him telling me how he learned to hate hominy grits, since this was about all they had to eat. During the shows, dad performed as the back end of a giraffe while brother, Ray, served as the head. They may have changed positions from time to time since my dad liked being in charge. Boy, did he!

Even when I became an adult with children of my own, my dad was never bashful about making sure I knew how to do something his way. I laugh about it now, but while mom and dad were visiting me in Puyallup, I remember how frustrated I got when he instructed me from the passenger seat of my car, how to back down my own driveway!

Most of dad's career was spent either in heavy construction or trucking, although during World War II, he operated cranes and other equipment at the Kaiser Shipyards in Portland, Oregon. He was color blind and not eligible for the draft. He and his brother-in-law, George Tabor, were also the first to take semi-trailers from Montana to Alaska on the Alcan Highway (a gravel and dirt road at the time) hauling bombs for the government ("Uncle Sam").

Dad was a man who loved his family and having fun. He would dance a jig at parties, sing and make people laugh. He was known to tip a few and in later years, even more, but I prefer to remember him as the fun loving story teller (Jim Hill's bull was a favorite) and jokester.

For ten years from the late 70's, mom and dad lived in Benton City, located in south-central Washington. Out of 40 applicants, dad had been hired as the superintendent for Benton County's roads. Evidently, one of the other applicants who worked for the county, was upset he hadn't gotten the job instead, so he kept an eye on dad to see if he could undermine him.

Mom and dad had a dog named Blondie. She was a Cocker Spaniel with long golden hair and ears that draped gracefully to her shoulders, particularly when she was sitting. Dad knew he was being watched and followed, so one day he deliberately took Blondie with him in his truck, while inspecting the county roads. He also made sure Blondie was sitting very close to him in the front seat. (Bench seats allowed that kind of thing in the 70's).

Sure enough, my dad was reported for driving around the county with a woman in the truck! But dad, with good humor and a twinkle in his eye, demonstrated the mistaken identity of his "woman" to the county officials. That put an end to the disgruntled employee's spying attempts.

Dad passed away in November, 1997 at the age of 86. He was a fun and funny man, who for all his faults and foibles, will forever be dancing a jig in my heart.
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