MY FATHER: MY OLD MAN, Part 3
by Charlie Steel

Join in the conclusion as Charlie Steel reflects on his father's heroism and how years later he realizes "there is something to be said for sincerity, hard work and compassion."

I had given up all hope when I saw a hand come up and disturb the slick surface of the thick oil pool. I watched incredulously as the hand rose higher up the cable. It was a miracle. How could any man climb out of that greasy pit? How much strength would that take? Slowly, carefully, the hand rose higher and then my father's head broke the surface of the pool. I tried to think of a way to reach him, but I couldn't. My father continued to claw his way up with one hand until half his body was out of the pool. My uncle and I watched as my father slowly pulled up the inert body of Cecil using his other arm. With a great twisting of my father's arm and body, holding onto a greasy girder with one hand, my father opened his mouth and an explosion of air and oil flew out. At the same time giving a mighty thrust, he propelled the inert body of Cecil through the air. Cecil landed with such force that he slid clear across the wooden platform of the rig.

I was amazed. I had never believed my father had such strength nor that such a thing was humanly possible. Ignoring Cecil, I reached for my father with a giant pipe wrench that I held in my hands.

"Dad!" I screamed. "Clear your eyes and look! Grab the wrench and I'll pull you up!"

"My dad cleared one eye with one hand, waved away the pipe wrench, and somehow slithered up and out of the crude. His mighty grip wrapped around a pipe of the steel scaffolding, he climbed up. I grabbed rags and a shirt and began wiping the oil from my father's head. I tried to clean off the oil from around his nose, eyes and mouth.

"Get me more rags!" bellowed my father.

I looked and gave him what I could find. Then I watched as my father coughed up black crude out of his mouth and lungs. I watched it spill out of his nose and then I saw him bend over and vomit into the pool of crude. I looked back and saw that my uncle had done nothing for his brother, Cecil. The little man was lying as my father had thrown him. My father forced himself up, coughing and choking and spitting, he quickly reached over to the body lying in its own mess of crude. He turned it over and tried to clear Cecil's mouth and nose.

"Help me! Get more rags!"

I ran to the doghouse and grabbed rags, changes of clothing, pants, shirts and underwear. I raced back. All the time my Uncle had done nothing but stand there and stare. I threw the clothing down and my father immediately began wiping the crude oil from Cecil's face. He then turned his head sideways, put fingers of one hand in the motionless man's mouth and with the other he pushed down hard on Cecil's chest. Crude oil flowed out of the mouth. My father stood up, bent down, grabbed Cecil's oil-covered ankles and pulled them up into the air. My father pulled higher until the ankles were up to his own shoulders and I watched as dad bounced the man's head hard on the oil covered boards of the platform.

Father then laid Cecil back on the platform and pushed on his chest. There was no movement of any kind from the oil-covered body. Then, I watched as my father bent over, took a large breath and began to blow air from his mouth into the mouth of the motionless man. He did this over and over, minute after minute, with no results.

"Come on!" shouted my father breathlessly.

Father blew, pounded, pumped, pushed and prodded the inert body with mouth and hands. Finally there was a gasp and Cecil began to cough and wheeze. Father turned him and more oil came out of the mouth and nose of the man.

"Here, give him this!"

Father and I turned and there was my uncle with a pint whisky bottle.

"He needs to be taken to the hospital!" said my father. "Not given whiskey."

"Ah, he's a tough little devil. I should know, he's my brother."

The old man bent down and forced whiskey into his brother's mouth. He did this until Cecil vomited out black liquid.

Now carry him to the company truck and I'll take him home," said the boss. "Mind you, put a blanket in there so he won't mess up the seat."

That same night Cecil, violently ill, called my father for help. My father, who also had been sick, got out of bed and drove Cecil to the hospital. Weeks afterwards my old man was still coughing black stuff out of his lungs.

At the time I was self-indulgent and self-involved and, even though I noted the miraculous thing my father did, I promptly forgot about it and moved on with my life. I got my car and by age 17 I graduated from high school, moved out, got a job, and started college full time. I had saved up money from other jobs to pay tuition. One thing I vowed was that I would never end up like my old man. I would use my brains not brawn. I wasn't going to get my hands dirty.

A few years later my dad was badly hurt in an oil well accident. Working for the same rich, mean uncle, my father got hit on the head while working in unsafe conditions. He sustained severe brain injury and it took years before he could get out of bed and walk. He survived only because of all the muscles he had built up over a lifetime. Later he actually enjoyed his forced retirement and he spent much time fishing and traveling with Mom. Dad and Mom had to sue the rich uncle, but in the end, it all turned out okay for them.

Looking back, I see that I was wrong about so many things. To work hard is never dishonorable. Father was not a sucker or a fool as I had previously thought. Working harder than other men, reveling in physical prowess and strength actually allowed my dad to live longer and healthier than his peers. He lived to 86 and he did exactly as he advised me those many years before - he made the best out of this life that he could.

Along the way, dad was always involved in church and through church he gave money to people, helped others, and was always the first to volunteer for fundraisers where he usually led the way. One time, he collected $86,000 in two weeks to build a new Episcopal Church in Florida. It was his personality and his genuine concern for others that prompted people to give. Towards the end, my father began to collect, memorize and recite poetry. He did it in the oddest places - in lines at grocery stores, at church and on the street. People stopped and listened. Dad had thousands of friends, rich and poor, young and old. He died being remembered and honored by many.

You think I would have learned early from my old man. But, I was caught in the web of my own making. Instead, I can only belatedly acknowledge the wisdom of my father and his philosophy and ethics. Daily I stare into the distant horizon and think about the failures and shortcomings in my own life. Trying to be clever and smart and wise is not always the answer. There is something to be said for sincerity, hard work and compassion. My old man touched thousands of lives, helped many people, worked hard and set a quiet example for many before he died. And, he did it all with a steady smile, a quick hello and a firm handshake. Maybe I did learn something from my old man after all.

Those interested in reading more about Charlie Steel's work may visit www.condorpublishing.com.