WICHITA EAGLE-BEACON William R. Bartel Sr. was 10 feet tall, king of the hill and god in his house. I know, because he told me these facts every week of my young life. What an ego. If you don't believe me, just ask my brothers - Robert William, Timothy William, Joseph William and Francis William. He was a man of huge spirit trapped in the body of Don Knotts. A hey-how-ya-doin' kind of guy who always put his arm around whoever he was talking to. If you were around him for 15 minutes you knew two things: He smoked incessantly - the world was his ashtray - and he thought my mother was the most beautiful woman on Earth. His love affair with Mom was a never-ending heavy date. Ballroom dancing, flowers for no reason, necking on the sofa - you get the picture. In addition to five sons, my parents also had five daughters. It was fewer kids than the dozen they planned, but they learned to live with it. Mom was the healer of physical and spiritual wounds. Pop was the general. He embarrassed us with his finger-snap commands as he trooped us into church. A regular ritual before our annual trip to a nice restaurant was for Dad to threaten us with serious bodily harm if we misbehaved. We were so polite that other patrons bought us rounds of soda. With that many mouths to feed, our family was always living on the financial edge, but I never knew it. I thought everyone's father bought an entire cow and butchered it with the help of his squeamish kids. Having one bathroom for 12 people seemed perfectly normal. A lot if it, I think, was attitude. My father was always so sure about everything. He and Mom made us feel that we were part of something special. Whether it was taking turns learning to dance on the tops of his feet to tunes from the Lawrence Welk Show or traveling across the country in a camper inscribed with "THE BARTEL FAMILY" in huge letters, Dad was making sure his family was growing up together. He taught by example that manhood has more to do with honesty and open affection than physical strength or stoicism. My brothers and I never stopped kissing him on the lips when we grew into men. He wanted so much for his sons and daughters to be like him. But when we went our own ways, our dreams became his. A lifelong jock, he tried teaching me to throw a fastball. When I left my glove to rot on the lawn while I read books, he never showed his disappointment. Instead, he built a bookshelf and installed a reading lamp above my bed. Decades later, when I was a dirt-poor college student, he tried to give me spending money when I was home for the holidays. But, like him, I was too stubborn to take unearned money. I ended up getting a job at a neighborhood store. It was only a few months ago that I learned Dad had convinced the store owner to offer me that job and paid the guy enough money to cover my salary. My father died two years ago last April 5 the way every good man should go: cradled in the arms of the woman he loved. He had a smile on his face and an enviable belief in his bones that he knew exactly where he was going. It's funny how as time passes I understand Dad so much more clearly. Late at night when I look in on my own sleeping sons, I feel what he felt and worry the way he worried. It pains me that I can't tell him about it. I guess I'll have to be content to teach my kids how to dance on the tops of my feet. I think Pop would like that. |