Joe Cramer-Being a Father

It's that time of year again when we get congratulated for being dads. I stop by the cemetery to do some looking back on being the lucky son of my own dad. I can't thank him enough. Because I may have been what could be called a bit of a loose cannon growing up, I'm not so sure congratulations are in order for my dad. Maybe a word or two of concern or understanding and a gold medal would be better. I was a good kid, a good son, most of the time. But there were a few times when some of my choices must have tested my father's patience far beyond most human expectations. How I am not sure, but somehow good old dad managed to handle my disruptive behavior and remain patient and caring and ready to move forward. My dad forged an attitude of being able to overcome just about anything in my mind that carries me through all these years since he went to the great eternal fishing sight he always dreamed of. I believe the attitude he expressed so well is exactly what keeps a real fisherman on the water long after the fish stop biting. Along with the attitude he also gave me perfect examples of what forgiveness and unconditional love meant. He had a lot of that forgiving to do with me. My maturity took a few turns here and there so he had a regular workout in that category. Yet, he still insisted I was a gift and on Father's day he felt he should be thanking all those involved in his being a father instead of being thanked. Humble and grateful for who he was. How can a guy go wrong with a dad like that? That's why I dedicated my book "Joe's Story: The Book of a Lifetime" in part to him.

That brings me to who I am as far as being a father. I had to become one before I fully understood my dad's humility. Truthfully, I rather enjoy the calls and cards and maybe a special meal or activity. But, that's where it stops these days. I am lucky to have the kids and grandkids I have. I trust that in some way I was a good example in their lives too. At least they are still talking to me and answer the phone when I call. It's a privilege and an honor to be their father. Being a dad came with a heavy responsibility and due to my own dad's ability and love I was ale to meet that obligation the best way I could and watched them grow and mature into remarkable parents themselves. That is so very cool!

So on Father's Day I offer my congratulations to the dads everywhere that did their best to be there for their kids. You had a job to do and you did it. We get some static sometimes, actually a lot of times: for working too much, being too strict, expecting too much, believing kids should except their own consequences, sometimes having to be the enforcer of those consequences, for even being in a place of authority. Well, in His wisdom, God placed us where we are and made us the way we are. Being a good father means that, no matter how much we are criticized, we must remain true to our goal of being the best dad we can. It's our job and our privilege and our honor. Hey guys, here's to you and me for being there, loving and protecting our kids and leading them into the future knowing we stuck with them through thick and thin. Good Job! Happy Father's Day!

Men crying

What's all this men crying stuff that's going on anyway? It seems that every time I turn on the TV or the radio, some otherwise macho guy is choking back tears and has to compose himself before he can continue speaking. Yeah sure, we all know that real men do cry right? But come on, over every little thing? getting a new job, buying a car, making a bad baseball call, new clothes, receiving a big hammer and walking in the door of a new home all appear to induce a waterfall of tears they need a bath towel to wipe away. I'm really getting confused about this seemingly popular new phenomenon. It's sort of discomforting and unsettling to say the least.

In all my years of life, since my earliest memories I learned that men cry, yes they do. It's totally allowed. But, men should know when and where they can cry. Knowing that is an important part of being a man. If men continue to cry openly, anywhere, anytime, for any reason we're going to be thought of as a bunch of pushovers, so completely in touch with our inner selves that we may be mistaken for being, "sensitive." Heaven forbid!

I would like to remind all you guys out there that are letting loose with a flow of tears running down your cheeks and quivering lower lip that you should be a little more discreet with your emotions before you completely lose your manhood. Men know where to go when the need to cry overwhelms them. Men go to bars and cry their hearts out to the bartender! It's always been that way and some of you should ought to remember that. I suppose it all started with Dr. Phil and took off from there but we have to get back to the basics of manhood and return to our natural instincts of crying in our beer. People watching a man cry on TV may not truly understand why he's doing it but we know with absolute confidence the neighborhood bartender can relate, completely understand and keep it to himself. That's the way it is and has always been in real life isn't it? So, I say, cry away, cry often but keep it within the boundaries of true manhood. Do your crying in a bar. Just like this with a little tongue in the cheek.

The old, mean guy

I happened across a guy from my old neighborhood the other day. As I looked over a shelf of sale items, deeply engrossed in the art of saving money, a hand touched my shoulder and a deep, mature voice said, "Hello Joey." Even without looking recognition was triggered by his distinctive rich, baritone, almost musical speech. The other was that only a chosen few in my life have been allowed to call me Joey. I turned and looked and sure enough, it was the mean old guy from down the street as I was growing up. He must be in his nineties by now because he was old back then. He was also considered by most neighborhood kids to be as mean as a junk yard dog. For some reason he and I got along OK while other kids thought some day he would kill me and feed me to his chickens.

His ramshackle house was located on the back edge of a gravel road alongside the railroad tracks. His wife planted flowers in the front yard around a stand up bath tub half buried in the ground with a religious statue sitting inside. The rest of the yard, except for a walkway and a fenced area with a chicken coop, was filled with vegetables, two apple trees, a plum tree and a small patch of blackberry bushes, with piles of smelly manure surrounding the roots. The mean old guy worked two full time jobs but still kept the garden growing and spent several hours a week working on repairing and improving some part of the house. He didn't speak to hardly anyone. They had three children, two sons and a daughter. The children were usually inside the house or gone, I can't remember a time when they played outside with the rest of us neighborhood kids. The rumor was that they were being kept prisoners and the mean old guy beat them and his wife every day. They didn't have a TV antenna anywhere on the house. The whole family was weird, they said. I thought they were OK. I met him and his family and talked with them once in a while because I peddled papers to them and also sold the mean old guy his garden seeds from my catalog. I helped him pick them out because he couldn't read. To be continued.

It's supposed to rain pretty good today. Should help my garden grow what I've already planted and help prepare for more planting too..........................Joe