by jphilo | Mar 7, 2016 | Family
Nineteen years ago this day, my family was at a funeral home.More mourners than we expected came to say good-bye to my father, Harlan Stratton. The mourners spent long minutes studying the photographs that chronicled his life.
“That’s the way I remember him,” each one said, pointing at the photograph that encapsulated the years when they had shared life together.
Some chose his high school graduation picture.
Others lingered by the snapshot of him standing by his prize steer, Snowball.
The flower girls from my parents’ wedding pointed to a picture of a grinning groom.
Former 4-Hers smiled at the studio portrait taken when he became a county extension agent.
To be honest, I was jealous of those people who remembered my dad in his prime, when he could still walk into rooms. When his voice boomed above the crowd and took control. When he laughed and traded jokes long into the night. When he drove and Mom sat in the passenger seat. I was jealous because they knew my father in ways I never did and never will.
But now, 19 years after we celebrated Dad’s life my photo pick is one that didn’t get much attention on March 7, 1997. My favorite is his college graduation picture. The one where his flat top is a bit unruly, his eyes a little squinty, his smile crooked, and his chin on the jowly side.
That less-than-perfect face is my favorite because looking at his hair, his eyes, his smile, and his chin, I see where I came from. The envy I once felt toward those who knew the man I didn’t has disappeared. How can I be jealous of people who knew Dad in ways I never will when the imprint of him is on my heart and face?
Oh, Dad, I miss you.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997. Dearly loved husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, uncle, cousin, and friend.
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2015 | Family
Wednesdays are usually recipe day. But usually on March 4, I write a post about Dad who died on this date in 1997. Since Dad loved to eat, my original plan was to feature a recipe for one of his favorite foods. Not an easy task to choose just one food. Because he had lots of favorites.
Pretty much anything on his plate.
But then, I read that Dad’s favorite restaurant in the world, Archie’s Waeside Steakhouse in Le Mars, Iowa–my home town–was just named one of five restaurants to be named one of the James Beard Foundation’s America Classics for 2015.
Bam!
I was transported back to 1965. Mom was pushing Dad across the Archie’s parking lot. My sister, brother, and I were tagging along behind. Big Sis held the door open while Mom maneuvered Dad’s wheelchair across the threshold. Once inside, Dad’s grin was so wide his face could barely hold it. He began greeting the customers waiting to be seated, whether or not he’d ever seen them before.
But we never had to wait very long for a booth.
Perhaps because Dad was the former youth extension director in Plymouth County, where Le Mars is located. And he trained the county youth to show their cattle at the fair. And Archie’s always bought the county fair champion feeder steers to serve at the restaurant. Or perhaps it was because Dad began salivating for his Archie’s steak cooked just right–black on the outside and still kicking on the inside–and the wait staff took pity on him. Or perhaps because his joy at being out to eat with his family, chewing the fat with every friend or acquaintance who walked by, made the restaurant look good. Or perhaps because he was Archie’s best word-of-mouth advertiser on wheels.
Ever.
All of which goes to show that Dad was a foodie before his time. Long before James Beard, Top Chef, or the Food Network. Long before cell phones, selfies, and posting pictures of people posing with food on Facebook. Long before all that, Dad knew he could travel the world and never find a steak better than one from Archie’s. Now the world knows about Archie’s, too.
Dad would be so proud.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929–March 4, 1997.
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2014 | Family, Top Ten Tuesday
10. He gave rabbit kisses. No way to describe them. You had to be there.
9. When I was home sick from school, laying on the couch, he would park his wheelchair beside me, and we would watch Captain Kangaroo together. He laughed as hard as I did.
8. Having Dad close by in his wheelchair made me feel safe.
7. He picked Mom’s birthday and Christmas gifts carefully. He looked through the newspaper ads and phoned the store to quiz the clerk for a long time about whatever gift he wanted to buy. Once he made his decision, he arranged to have the gift delivered when Mom was at work.
6. Dad loved to play cards with friends, but he didn’t play to win. He played to talk.
5. He was never, ever a picky eater. He ate with gusto whatever was served and always complimented the cook.
4. Dad never allowed discussions about politics to become cut throat. His most barbed political statement referred to his right arm, severely weakened by multiple sclerosis: It’s my Republican arm. Not good for much of anything.
3. His thousand-watt smile and sense of humor.
2. He was always happy to see people. Always.
1. Dad rarely showed bitterness during his 38 year battle with multiple sclerosis. He was 29 when it was diagnosed, 31 when he required a wheelchair and retired, 54 when he entered a nursing home, and 67 when he died. I am so grateful for his example, his influence, and the years his life intersected mine.
Oh, Dad, I miss you!
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1928–March 4, 1997.
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2011 | Family
Fourteen years ago today, my father drew his last breath and embarked upon a great
adventure.
After thirty-eight years trapped in a body weakened by multiple sclerosis, he found
release.
After fourteen years as an invalid who required total nursing home care, he was
independent once more.
After ten years of not recognizing his children, he could once again say our names.
After five years too weak to shoot the breeze with friends, his voice returned.
Fourteen years ago today, the man who modeled so many precious lessons about life
drew his last breath.
I remember
how he lived with dignity in the face of lost dreams,
found humor in a situation others defined as tragic,
refused to become embittered by his lost health.
I remember
how his twinkling eyes eased the discomfort of those put off by his wheelchair,
how his weak legs reminded others to cherish their ability to walk,
how his faith found confirmation in the sweetness of his spirit.
I remember
how peaceful his body looked as his breathing stopped,
how still it lay upon his bed.
I remember the truth that flooded my soul fourteen years ago today.
His grand adventure has begun.
My father is walking again.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997. Dearly loved husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, uncle, cousin, and friend. 
