Remembering Dad

My father was fifty years old when I was born, the last of ten children. The depression had seriously hurt their success at farming and the coup de grace came when the farm house they were renting burned down. I was two years old at the time and my parents decided to move to the city and take advantage of the many jobs opening due to the draft. Besides working as a truck driver (locally) my Dad undertook enlarging the six room house they bought in Frogtown (St. Paul, Mn). My two brothers had left home and my seven sisters were all involved in getting an education, so my father was the only steady male influence. He was an even-tempered man for the most part and left the disciplining up to my mother. However, I was a very spoiled young lady whose sisters took delight in pleasing me and showing me off. I would throw temper tantrums over anything I didn't like, including my dinner. One day, my tantrum finally made my father's temper boil over and he took me to the back porch and spanked me hard. It was the kindest thing he ever did. After that, whenever I would start to act up in his presence, he would remind me that such behavior only brought pain and sorrow. Nonetheless, a couple of years later, when I was a school girl and old enough to know better, I grew angry at being denied something and deliberately slammed the door as I went out. My father called me back in and told me to close the door properly. I went out and slammed it again. This time the punishment left me with a very sore behind. Those were the only two times my father exerted discipline over me and I credit them with waking me up to what was intolerable in my behavior. I've thanked him every year on Father's Day by offering Mass for the repose of his soul. He died when I was sixteen. I'm currently writing a book based on his life, tentatively titled "A Span of Years".