Heros and "Heros"

As you may or may not know, my family is going through cancer. My ex-wife’s husband, Joe, has lung cancer. I’m not unfamiliar with this malady, however. My parents had cancer. My dad had throat cancer, and my mother had lung cancer. They sat on two couches in their living room. Until now I never appreciated them, but I have learned. I’ve done some articles about Joe, his war record, his “efforts” to work with the family, and so forth. Until now I have not compared him with my parent’s example. I’m going to do that now. And it’s going to surprise you.

When I grew up, we were not upper middle class. Heck, in the 1960’s I don’t think there even WAS a middle class! In Texas there were people who had new cars, and there was the rest of us. Generally we worked construction. My dad was a roofer. Now, being a roofer in Texas in the ‘60s was about as close to being a slave as you could get and not be sold on the “block.” Texas has three seasons: hot, hotter, and hottest. I remember my dad literally would come home and pour sweat from his tennis shoes after work. He would sit there at night and drink beer, watching “The Guns of Will Sonnet.” Mom was a waitress. We don’t have waitress’ any more. We have some kid at McDonald’s who forgets to cut the tomato from your sandwich. My mother could carry four servings on her arms to the tables, and never forgot what the customer ordered. Shifts in the Blue Bonnet cafe were ten to twelve hours. . . if you were lucky. a lot of the times the next shift would not show up so she would have to work a “double.” 

There was no money! One thing I’ve noticed is that dimes have gotten smaller in the last few years. When I was eleven they were about the size of a quarter, but then, they were silver back then. As I grew, and saw more of them they began to assume a more regular size. I remember earning my first fifty dollars for a week’s work. I went to the bank and got it all in one dollar bills to stuff in my wallet. We were always, “In the hole.” There was never enough money to go around. 

We did have food. My parents were from Louisiana, and getting food on the table was job one. The adults always ate last, kids ate first. The food wasn’t what Emril would like, but it was good. Liver and onions, fried chicken, and chicken and rice. Oh God, did we have rice. Fancy spices? Forget about it! SALT and PEPPER! Can’t taste it, more SALT! Dinner, or rather “supper” was a happy time. I must say there was always enough. Well, there was enough for us kids. I can’t remember ever seeing my parents sit down for a meal. It was always something rolled up on bread. My dad would usually open a can of “potted meat,” and eat it with crackers. On occasion we’d have round steak. Heck, I thought that was a STEAK!

The dogs ate left overs. My father thought it was the silliest thing in the world to buy “store bought” food for a dog! Dad had two dogs, Ben Cartwright and Butch. Ben was a Chow, and Butch was an Irish Setter, and a coward. We had to keep Ben chained because he’d whip Butch at any opportunity. Dad fed them from coffee cans.Whatever we ate for supper, he’d make a little greasy gravy and put the left overs in the cans, pouring the gravy over it.  Ben, being on a chain would put his can just nearly at the end of the chain to entice Butch to come over and then whip his butt when he approached. He’d give up food to whip Butch’s butt. Dad also had a hawk that sat on his arm. The hawk was an alcoholic. Dad would get in fights with the bird all the time. I had a pet armadillo. Called him “Dillon,” after the main character on “Gunsmoke.” Armadillos are like cats. They use a sandbox. They’re also very smart. The yankees say they carry leprosy, but we never caught it. We had to watch the neighbors, because they were all Mexicans and kept stealing and eating my pets. There were several “Dillons.” 

At forty two my dad contracted throat cancer. He “smoked” a pipe, I say, “smoked” because he rarely lit it, he mainly chewed on the stem. He worked all his life with asbestos shingles and asbestos siding. I still remember when I was five seeing my dad, with my mom helping him, cutting the siding with a table saw, the blue asbestos dust all around them. Connect the dots! That may have been where the cancer came from, but it didn’t matter. Big settlements were reserved for rich yankees. Poor southern white trash didn’t get any of that money. They got the “VA.” Dad went to the VA and they burned his head off with radiation for him. After seeing the expert care he got he decided keeping his neck tied up with an Ace bandage and drinking whiskey was the best course of action. I suppose he was right because he live for sixteen more years. 

Mom got lung cancer. She didn’t last as long as dad. Took about six months. They gave her chemo and the second dose killed. her. Dad had a brief stay in the VA and mom ended up in a nursing home. When dad got out he walked into the nursing home, scooped up my mother and took her home. Right after that he had a “bleed out,” and was put back in the VA. Mom, again ended up in the nursing home where they let her die with due dispatch. When we walked into the room where she lay, there was a partially finished check on the table beside her body. She had convinced herself in her final hours that the reason she was in the home was that she hadn’t paid her rent on her apartment this month, and if she could just do that, then everything was going to be ok! Dad lived another eighteen months alone in a mobile home near the rest of us. He went back to the hospital where he was eventually transferred to the same nursing home my mother where my mother had died. He choked to death the next day. When he was younger his father in law was dying and Doctor Hawkins told him that when the end came to keep the girls away because in the last moments the old man may grab out trying to live. When my dad felt the end coming on my wife tried to lean over and help. He violently pushed her away. For a long time she thought he hit at her, but I told her no, his last act in this life was to protect a woman because Doctor Hawkins had told him so. 

And we have Joe! I must tell you I’ve never been as proud of my parents as I am today. Joe joined the Army at nineteen. Every month he had a check, a bed, a ride, and food. He had weekends off. He had federal holidays. He has home loans to buy any house he wanted, and I’m not saying he didn’t deserve this, I’m “jus saying’’ Joe was told he had lung cancer and his entire “put togethers” fell apart. I honestly cannot remember ever hearing my parents complaining about their lot in life. I got them a “color TV,” and in their final days that was the joy of their lives. BASEBALL. The Atlanta Braves. Dad never missed a game, and he loved the color TV because it made it easy to see the white ball on the green grass. 

My parents watched my two boys, Wilbur and Tim, while I worked. Not ONE word or complaint. Tim would help keep dad’s Ace bandage neat, and Wilbur was forever playing with his little fire truck. When dad died it was literally the end of their world. Joe, on the other hand can’t STAND my grandkids! I won’t say any more than that. And these kids are WITTS. They will fight. My grand uncle Silas fought for the Republic of Texas, my grandfather chased Pancho Villa all over the Valley, and my grandkids have their DNA! Joe and his family HAVE no DNA. I don’t know what courses through their veins, but it’s not blood! 

All this “hero” thing is all very fine, but you need to define “hero.” Is a hero someone who made a decision that required five minutes and you get a medal is it  someone who made a decision that lasted for years and got a room to die in at a cheap nursing home? Not one word of complaint. No one challenge to God about their plight. Not one moment where they questioned their position in life. Just work, and struggle, and family and the grave! Family is the most important. Family. Joe seems to think that grandchildren are “disposable.” He disposed of his own, why should I expect his attitude to be any different with mine. Well, they’re NOT disposable! My mom and dad, and Uncle Silas are watching me, and they don’t split any hairs. 

I am not saying I do not appreciate the integrity and service of our men and women who fight for our freedom every day. My son, COMMAND Master Chief Wilbur William Witt III is in the Gulf YET again, fighting ISIS this time. He comes from a long line of Witt sailors who went before him. What I am saying is that strength comes in many forms, and I never loved my mom and dad more than I do at this moment!