I remember Dad--Father's Day 2019
He was born on July 6th, only son of John Holmes Smith and Willimee Katherine Barrows Smith, and named Russell Holmes.
He was the apple of his mother's eye and possibly a bit spoiled by his father. As a young child he spent many hours in church with his mother, who attended every service and bible study, taking "Sonny"
with her. As a teenager he had an Indian motorcycle and a Boston Terrier dog named Judge who rode on the bike with him. Russell had a best friend named Henry. Together they built an airplane which looked beautiful but never made it far above the ground before hitting a fence causing severe damage. Russ worked for a time as a young chap caring for some horses, but that was about all the animal experience he had. He attended Northeastern University in Boston
after graduating from Attleboro (Mass.) High School. His major was Civil Engineering. After two years he married his high school sweetheart, Jeanne Sarson, and left college to earn a living.
This was the era of the Depression. He found work and supported his wife and in the second year of their marriage, his first child-me.
And here I will end his biography. Here I begin the story of the father I knew.
I thought he could do no wrong. He was the most honest, hard-working man I ever knew. He demanded much of others, but he
always gave more of himself. He was a good father. When he was employed by the NY, New Haven, Hartford RR, he was away from home most of the week. When he came home on weekends he always brought us treats and a comic book each for my sister and I.
On my tenth birthday he gave me a book of poems which I have to this day. Inside he wrote- "to my fast-growing daughter, Cyndie, with whom I am well pleased." For Christmas one year he gave me a red
plastic wind-up car. Not something I had asked for or wanted, but I could see HE thought it was great. Another year I got Lincoln Logs.
Mother and Dad bought the dairy farm in Vermont shortly after my little sister, Betsy was born. Three daughters, no son, and 190 acres and 50 head of cattle. I never realized until years later what a challenge that was. Patty and I worked like boys (and loved it). Mother told us that when Dad talked about us girls with other farmers he said he would put us up against any of their sons. He never told us. He transported our 4-H heifers to shows. Despite the fact that he had to be up at 4 am, he waited up in his old gray chair in the living room until his teenage daughters arrived home from a date.
He brought me my first dog when I was 14. He surprised me with my first horse when I was 17.
When I married I still would not make any major decision without consulting my Dad. (This did not always go well with my spouse.)
When I visited as an adult, he was always at the door, arms open wide with a hug.
When I became a widow, he came to my little farm and spent a week finishing the work on the new barn that my husband had begun.
My Dad was my hero. I secretly thought I was his favorite.
Then in their advancing years, when the family decided our parents needed help, I was chosen to move in with them. This was a mistake. Dad was the most independent person on earth. My presence was an insult to his very way of life. I stayed for over a year. I had brought my dog with me and every night when he and mother went to bed, I would say goodnight. Dad would always say
"Goodnight Heather" to my dog but never to me. During this time my mother told me that I had always been a disappointment to my Dad. First I should have been a son, and secondly I was too much like him. Third-I did not marry the farm boy he had so hoped to acquire as a son-in-law and he did not like the one I did marry. I thought perhaps mother was taking a dim view of this so I checked with my sister. She said "Didn't you know this?"
I guess I lived a fairy tale.
Then after a brave fight with a type of lung cancer and a lengthy remission, he eventually lay dying. My sisters were there. I was states away. The Hospice nurse could not understand how he kept living. One afternoon my sister called me. Patty & Betsy were by his bed. Dad was blind now. I asked her to put the phone by his ear.
I told Dad I was there too, that I loved him and he was free to go now to join Mother. A few hours later he died. Was he waiting for me to come? We don't know.
At his funeral the pastor said his passing would leave a large hole in our hearts. It has. It hurt for a long time to think he was disappointed in me--that I was not "Dad's pal". But he could not have been a better father. I used to love my Dad. I still do.
He was the apple of his mother's eye and possibly a bit spoiled by his father. As a young child he spent many hours in church with his mother, who attended every service and bible study, taking "Sonny"
with her. As a teenager he had an Indian motorcycle and a Boston Terrier dog named Judge who rode on the bike with him. Russell had a best friend named Henry. Together they built an airplane which looked beautiful but never made it far above the ground before hitting a fence causing severe damage. Russ worked for a time as a young chap caring for some horses, but that was about all the animal experience he had. He attended Northeastern University in Boston
after graduating from Attleboro (Mass.) High School. His major was Civil Engineering. After two years he married his high school sweetheart, Jeanne Sarson, and left college to earn a living.
This was the era of the Depression. He found work and supported his wife and in the second year of their marriage, his first child-me.
And here I will end his biography. Here I begin the story of the father I knew.
I thought he could do no wrong. He was the most honest, hard-working man I ever knew. He demanded much of others, but he
always gave more of himself. He was a good father. When he was employed by the NY, New Haven, Hartford RR, he was away from home most of the week. When he came home on weekends he always brought us treats and a comic book each for my sister and I.
On my tenth birthday he gave me a book of poems which I have to this day. Inside he wrote- "to my fast-growing daughter, Cyndie, with whom I am well pleased." For Christmas one year he gave me a red
plastic wind-up car. Not something I had asked for or wanted, but I could see HE thought it was great. Another year I got Lincoln Logs.
Mother and Dad bought the dairy farm in Vermont shortly after my little sister, Betsy was born. Three daughters, no son, and 190 acres and 50 head of cattle. I never realized until years later what a challenge that was. Patty and I worked like boys (and loved it). Mother told us that when Dad talked about us girls with other farmers he said he would put us up against any of their sons. He never told us. He transported our 4-H heifers to shows. Despite the fact that he had to be up at 4 am, he waited up in his old gray chair in the living room until his teenage daughters arrived home from a date.
He brought me my first dog when I was 14. He surprised me with my first horse when I was 17.
When I married I still would not make any major decision without consulting my Dad. (This did not always go well with my spouse.)
When I visited as an adult, he was always at the door, arms open wide with a hug.
When I became a widow, he came to my little farm and spent a week finishing the work on the new barn that my husband had begun.
My Dad was my hero. I secretly thought I was his favorite.
Then in their advancing years, when the family decided our parents needed help, I was chosen to move in with them. This was a mistake. Dad was the most independent person on earth. My presence was an insult to his very way of life. I stayed for over a year. I had brought my dog with me and every night when he and mother went to bed, I would say goodnight. Dad would always say
"Goodnight Heather" to my dog but never to me. During this time my mother told me that I had always been a disappointment to my Dad. First I should have been a son, and secondly I was too much like him. Third-I did not marry the farm boy he had so hoped to acquire as a son-in-law and he did not like the one I did marry. I thought perhaps mother was taking a dim view of this so I checked with my sister. She said "Didn't you know this?"
I guess I lived a fairy tale.
Then after a brave fight with a type of lung cancer and a lengthy remission, he eventually lay dying. My sisters were there. I was states away. The Hospice nurse could not understand how he kept living. One afternoon my sister called me. Patty & Betsy were by his bed. Dad was blind now. I asked her to put the phone by his ear.
I told Dad I was there too, that I loved him and he was free to go now to join Mother. A few hours later he died. Was he waiting for me to come? We don't know.
At his funeral the pastor said his passing would leave a large hole in our hearts. It has. It hurt for a long time to think he was disappointed in me--that I was not "Dad's pal". But he could not have been a better father. I used to love my Dad. I still do.
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