My Dad, Willie Jens

Today I am grateful for my dad, Willie Jens.  He would have been 89 years old today, but sadly he died of a sudden heart attack when he was only 68.  Every single day I think of him.  Every single day I miss him.

Poking through old photographs to try and find something useable, I realized that I always have a very clear picture of my dad in my mind.  He’s always laughing, usually because he said something that he thinks is hilarious, whether or not anyone else does.  He always has a pouch of pipe tobacco in his shirt pocket and his pipe in his hand.  Whenever I imagine him, he is telling a story, hands in pockets, jingling his change and keys.  Some of his little habits used to drive me crazy.  Now I’d mortgage my house to see him jingle change; to hear him tap-tap-tapping his pipe on the edge of a plastic ashtray; or to smell the cheap tobacco he used.

It didn’t take long for my dad to make a new friend.  If we were away from town and he saw someone who looked interesting, he’d stick out his stubby, work-worn hand and say, “Willie Jens.  Where’re you folks from?”  And they’d be off in a flurry of conversation like the old friends they would soon become.

It’s easy, after so many years, to idolize someone.  My dad had flaws.  He could get mad faster than anyone I ever saw.  But when he yelled, or threw his shoes (usually at me), it was over in minutes.  He never held a grudge.  “What’s done is done,” he’d say.

He was raised on a farm and farmers always worked, even when they weren’t supposed to be working.  When he was retired, he volunteered to help half of Sheboygan County with their farm or household chores.  Two days after he died, a lady from down the block called and said, “Where’s Willie?  He was supposed to come wash my windows today.”

Like so many of his generation, he was proud to have spent time in the military, but he rarely talked about it.  I know he drove a jeep in the army and also a truck which towed the artillery.  He spent time in Germany, France and Belgium.  He told my husband, (not me or my mom) about liberating the Abbey where the French made chartreuse liquor. His unit stayed there for three days. . .wink-wink. . .smirk-smirk. . .he-he-he.   

When I was born he already had a daughter, my sister, Judy.  I know he wanted a boy because in my baby book, my mom wrote that his first words when I was born were, “No train.”  I felt bad about that for years. . .and then I presented him with two grandsons which evened the playing field.  He loved all of his grandchildren, including the three step-grands my husband brought with him when we got married.  Everyone was family.

To say my dad was a character is an understatement.  I couldn’t find the pictures of him in dyed blue long-johns with a pink net tu-tu, magic wand and blond wig; or in a long white dress with a veil and long black hairpiece, as a bride in a mock wedding, with his hairy chest as cleavage.  I also couldn’t find the picture of him on his Honda express when he and John and I would ride all over town as “Mother, Jugs & Speed”.  My memories are not in print, but they are as vivid as the finest picture.

I remember him taking my bare feet when I was a little kid and brushing them across the fur on his chest and I’d laugh like a lunatic.  I remember standing on his shoes as he spun me around the kitchen to the “Beer Barrel Polka”.  I remember him dancing a jig on the roof of the garage he had just built.  I remember him bailing hay wearing blue and white striped bib overalls, boots, gloves, but no shirt, the sweaty dust sticking to his chest and back. I remember him playing cards with neighbors in a kitchen full of cigarette, pipe and cigar smoke, with a brandy-manhattan-with-olives making watery rings on the Formica table and plate of cheddar cheese, saltine crackers and sliced ring bologna nearby.

I remember every time I’d cut his hair he’d say, “Wait!  Let me make sure the part is right before you start.” And he’d rush to the mirror.  I’d say, “It’s right, dad, four inches straight down the middle.”  Then he’d tell the old joke. . .”A man walks into a barber shop and says to the barber, ‘I want you to cut my hair really short on this side, leave it long over here and chop it up in back so it looks like the steps of the church.’  The barber says, ‘I can’t do that.’  And the man says, ‘Sure you can.  You cut it that way the last time!’”  Then he’d laugh and laugh.  Every time.

The “Willie” gene has been passed down from generation to generation.  I know I have it.  I know my sons have it.  I know my granddaughters and grandson have it.  It’s pretty special because it came from a pretty special guy who, if he heard a compliment, would jingle his pockets, tap his pipe in the ash tray, kick at the floor and say, “Aw shucks.  You’re makin’ a guy blush!”  Then he’d tell another stupid story to shift focus. . .and laugh like a maniac. 

Every day I’m grateful he was my dad.  Every day. . .every single day I miss him.