My father was the first born of a hard working but always poor Ozark farm family. In the midst of the depression when it became difficult to feed all the kids, his mother’s sister and husband who had no children sent word that they could feed another mouth so at 16 he was “farmed out’ to them deep in the Ozark mountains at a little White River village called Branson. (Yes, that Branson). He lived and worked there until the depression was over. Then he made his way home and instead of going back to school he went back to work. He had to believe that the greatest hardships were behind him and life would be good as his wedding day approached. Then Pearl Harbor was bombed. The depression had been terrible. This would be worse. My Mom and Dad made the decision to elope. They had a few weeks together and then he was gone to the Pacific until 1945. When he came back he was a deeply wounded man but he was a man. He put his head down and he worked and he provided and he built a good life for his wife and his son. My folks celebrated their 50th anniversary. Three weeks later he fell down dead in the floor with a heart attack.
I remember him today and all those Dads of the greatest generation. I honor his pain and his incredible character and I thank God for him.
Last edited by FallCreekFan; 06/22/25 10:04 PM.
