Today: 1979 March 26 - April 1

Week 13 of my father's daily journal from 1979.

Monday 3.26.79

Daily Lottery: 271

Worked most of the day With just routine things

Stu put up a notice That the plant will be closed For two weeks Starting July 1 I doubt if I'll take my vacation

At that time. I may just take a two week loss. It's cold today

But I doubt if this kind of weather

Will last very long. Robert Frost,

American poet, born 1874;

Tennessee Williams,

American playwright, born 1911

Tuesday 3.27.79

Daily Lottery: 582

Bob Enoch came in

For his monthly visit

And him and Stu and Paul P.

Were in Stu's office

All morning. None of them were around

In afternoon

Until after 4 p.m.

So we did not do much

As there was very little to do.

Missed the daily lottery

By one digit tonight

So I'll try harder for tomorrow. Mary said her mother

Is better today. I'm glad for that. Punk, Morgan & kids Along with Dayryl, Cookie and Matt

Were in also.

Watched TV

And went to bed.

Nathaniel Currier, American lithographer, born 1813

Wednesday 3.28.79

Daily Lottery: 372

Worked in morning

Cleaning window. In afternoon Chris & Vic & Paul P Were out in tunnel kiln

Palatizing brick

For shipment to Ohio plant That Roesberry is taking out tomorrow. I played the number 325 today

And lost but

Sure was close again I will not quit As I know I can hit that big If I put the time in it.

Did not eat much today

As I'm trying to lose some weight.

Ariside Briand,

French statesman, born 1862

Thursday 3.29.79

Daily Lottery: 878

Enoch was still in

In the morning

He left about 3 p.m.

Not too bad of a day

Missed lottery again.

Close. Worked on tomorrow's number

For about 3 hours.

Took sis to market.

Mary went to a hospital dinner

At the Ramada.

Got home about 10 p.m.

Will finish beer

And go to bed.

John Tyler,

10th President, born 1790

Friday 3.30.79

Daily Lottery: 523

Worked most of the morning

Afternoon we washed

And waxed Stu's Duster Drain clogged up

So Stu & Perry Cleaned it out

Missed by one digit again

On lottery.

Francisco Jose de Goya,

Spanish painter, born 1746;

Russia sold Alsaska to the United States, 1867

Saturday 3.31.79

Daily Lottery: 491

Went to market with Mary.

Got $70 worth of groceries

Played 049

On daily number

And missed by one.

Just can't seem

To get that last number.

Picked up sis And we went to Clfd Mall. Bought a lime spreader And Kelly's birthday present Put spreader together

In afternoon

Then limed yard. Watched T.V.

And went to bed. Also got 4 shrubs

And planted them today.

Joseph Haydn,

Austrian composer, born 1732;

Daylight-saving time instituted, 1918

Sunday 4.1.79

Got up about 8:30.

Ate breakfast

And then wrote checks

For next month's bills

Grace & Mildred

Were here for dinner.

We went up to Morgan's

In the afternoon

Helped him cut down

A cherry tree

That never bared.

Came home

Then went down to hospital

With Mary & Mildred

To see Ivey.

Will work on Monday Daily Number

Sure could use a winner.

April Fool's Day.

Sergei Rachmaninoff,

Russian composer, born 1873

SOME NOTES

I appologize for missing Wednesday's reporting date as I was busy.

I've been meaning to add some notes along the way because my father's world was kind of a mystery to me as I look back on it. I have always felt alone in the world, or a desire to have peace and quiet, solace, stillness, reflection.

Those of you who know me might be figuring that last statement as quite a laugh, but it's true. I have told those close to me that I feel I'm an introvert; that my outgoing personality is more about keeping a shield up against people to kind of keep them at bay.

I suppose, like all Libra, if you buy into that kind of thing, I am always looking for and never attaining balance.

Our house was crowded when I was little, being the 6th of 7 kids and I was always trying to find a space of my own. Just to get away from the hurly-burly of a big family packed into a few rooms. One of my first memories in life was falling asleep behind the living room couch, cossetted against the wall where no one could find me. I remember as a child being able to fit myself into the bottoms of large cupboards and closing the doors and staying in there.

I was fond of climbing trees and reading comic books up in those trees. I sometimes fell asleep in boughs that I'd found that cradled me comfortably up by the power lines. Again, looking for my own space. Drove my father crazy, complaining about how Punky had fallen out of a tree up behind McKendrick's and broke her foot or something. I had conquered every tree in our neighborhood. Mrs. Reed (Mark's grandmother, across the street and down two...by the way, Mark Reed's mother made the best chili on earth ever and I think of how savory it was to this day) had a cherry tree that I was constantly competing with local birds for fruit. Mrs. Kester next door had fantastic apple trees built for climbing over a bed of fresh, cool rhubarb. I ate well. Everyone had a garden, but nobody had one like John Inlow. I suppose, as kids, our worlds are so large that we don't see our parents. They are there to rely on, or, more often, for correction, but we don't see them as real people. This, I think, being the sixth of seven, I mean, shit, they had to be plumb worn out trying to provide for all of us. There were no rules for me. I had no bedtime. I could go out and run around all night. But this crowding, I think, led to my feelings of isolation in this life. I could function in a crowd all right, but a crowd could be a pretty lonely place. I could entertain, but it was an act. Just getting by. Some of the themes my father was mining in this journal stand out to me. He always opens with observations on his work-a-day world. Complaining about low hourly wages and casting a cool eye on the dinizens of the Crescent Brick lab (or what they used to call Clearfield Clay, which was located across from the Hyde Bridge in Clearfield). I'm perpetually amused at his attitudes toward his co-workers. I'm always surprised by the crazy personal projects the guys are doing on slow days. My oldest sister, Punky, who is married to Morgan, who you read about in these pages from time to time, has related to me some information about dad's work. Morgan was a ceramic engineer, I think, at the brick yard and knew many of the names I've written about. The infamous Paul P. was Paul Palcovic, who was an engineer in the lab and plant. Ray Brant was the Chief Financial Officer of Resco. Ray was originally a professor at Pitt and, according to Punk & Morg, was a really nice guy. Bob Longfritz was the General Manager at Clearfield Crescent Brick. And Chris (still looking for the identifiable last name) was a lab tech, apparently like dad. The journal usually follows with the comings and goings of the day. There were constant struggles with those 1972 American Motors vehicles breaking down. Dad loved AMC vehicles. An old Studebaker or Rambler with a push-button transmission might have made him happier. I don't know. And the lottery. Jesus, that guy would pray for the right numbers. He actually felt that the lottery numbers were fixed. And BECAUSE they were fixed, he could somehow see into the numbers and predict them. In 1980, Nick Perry was actually caught in a consipiracy fixing the Daily Lottery number. This further proved my father's theory. That there was some pattern. And, damn, he was close a lot of the time. Dad would take and write the numbers down on large sheets of white cardboard with grids and he would stare at months of numbers on his display and somehow come to a number.

You didn't make a peep in the house when Dad had his pen and paper pad out and the Daily Lottery draw came on the television. Then there is his typical close. "Watched T.V. Went to bed." Like some kind of lower middle-class American mantra.

Father's journal was written in narrow columns, as if he was writing free verse.

I've written the entries down as if in some kind of free verse, breaking sentences into short, Steinbeckian phrases followed by dependent clause after dependent clause, almost diagramming my father's journal. This is because the journal was laid out in narrow columns, with a week taking up two pages. (See additional photo.). Oddly, our lives do seem to break down into tiny pieces.

I have felt unmoored in this life. Unanchored. Disconnected. So, sharing this journal is a way for me to connect a bit, even if it is decades after the fact. Your kids need to know who you are, so that they can tell who they are.

The original photo with the early entries was developed on June 4, 1993. It is of my dad in his tightie whities. (And yes, that is his junk peeking out from the seat of the exercise bike.). Over his shoulder in that photo was a painting by my mom. She had been teaching herself to paint and, dammit, she was developing a good style. I have a painting by my mother that I revere to this day.

The photo at the top of this article was a Polaroid taken in March, 2005, "9 days after the incident." I do not know what this incident was. I suspect it was some health related thing. Father had health problems. His stint in the U.S. Navy - 7 invasions in the Pacific - in World War II, I am sure, had a lot to do with the buzzing in his head and a lot of other problems. But it would be the old 4 pack a day habit of smoking Teryton cigarettes that eventually killed him. I think my dad was Kind and Wise. Seven kids and hourly wages will make you tolerant and you will see just about everything in time. Though he had little, he would give you everything he could. He told me to never be cheap with people. If friends were coming over, you didn't buy cheap beer. You bought good beer. If you could pick up the tab, that was honorable. I think his generosity meant he would never find monetary wealth. I understand this and live by it, I think. Thanks for reading today, and, if you knew my dad, or you happen to be one of the people who appears in his journal from 1979, or have thougts of your own that you would like to add, please do in the comments below. I think that would be a rich experience. If you feel like your comments need to be private and would like to share them with me, well, you'll have to look me up. There is a lot I don't know. So it's a journey and we keep on walking.