Chapter 14 - Hobort

Hobart looked like James Dean in the pictures we had of him as a young man. Family lore has it that he marched to his own drummer. He didn’t like drinking, smoking, swearing, or womanizing. He was not religious, just had very high moral standards for himself and for everyone around him. He was actually a loner, who always longed to be by himself. His dream life was to be a hermit in a shack full of books. He loved to fish, and had obviously spent time hunting, although he never was really fond of hunting. He loved mechanical things; especially cars, and he always had a car, starting with a Model A. He also owned a few trucks over the years. As far as I know he never owned a new car in his life and the best car he ever drove was a luxury rental that he drove once. On that particular occasion it was the only model available when he and mom were driving home from Florida. He was into late middle age by then.
Although Hobart wanted to be alone, he rarely was. He was actually quite popular and had a close circle of friends and relatives that he apparently drove to picnics, parties, beaches, and various other low cost events. My mom hung out with Hobart and his crew for six years before they married.
Hobart had to drop out of school in the eighth grade. His parents were not able to find work. It was the depression. His first job involved making deliveries on roller skates, a messenger service. In his late twenties he opened a garage and gas station with one of his good friends. The garage was forced out of business when his partner absconded with the funds. There was a great deal of bitterness about this and their friendship never recovered. After that, Hobart, not married, went to work in factories. When World War II broke out he was not accepted in the armed forces for several reasons, one of which involved being the sole support of his parents and later because he was in an “essential war industry” which he never described to us. I cannot imagine my father as a soldier. He was a solitary man in his heart and soul, with none of that locker room camaraderie which seems to help men survive in such environments. I suppose no one can really picture her or his father jumping out of a foxhole with a blazing gun or riding on a tank or marching in mud, or running off a U-boat into a brutal rain of machine gun fire. The fact that he did not participate in the war as a soldier cut him off further from his peers. No Veterans of Foreign Wars for Dad, no old war buddies stopping by the house. The neighborhood men in Smithvale who were his peers had all fought in the war. He was suspect to them and he lost an “in” in the good old boy network that might have helped him have greater career success. He never acted as if this bothered him at all.
When he was not working he could be found outside doing something “around the house”. There was always yard work to do and repairs to the house, and cars to keep on the road. The cellar was his domain also. His workshop was on the opposite side of the cellar from the washing machine and was well equipped with hammers, screwdrivers, drills and saws; jars of nuts and bolts, tacks and nails, all organized along a shelf behind the workbench. Little boxes with tiny drawers held every small piece of hardware that might ever be of use. There were various motors and car parts scattered over the workbench waiting to be rebuilt or to be plugged in to the latest used car. Later there were shoeboxes full of vacuum tubes to repair TV’s and radios for extra cash.
Hobart was the kind of dad who made you feel that he would take care of his family, no matter what it took. He was also a judgmental dad who led by example. He ruled by disapproval and disappointment. He disapproved of drinking, smoking, lying, tattling, gossiping whining, and refusing to pull your weight. He had honed disappointment to a fine weapon. The worst thing any of his children or even his wife could do was to not live up to his high expectation. We all hated to disappoint Dad because his disapproval was expressed in silence, a silence that had a weight. He would seem crushed by the weakness of your character and you would have to atone for your behavior before the weight of his silence would lift.
It was a traditional household in many ways. There were girls’ chores and boy’s chores. Boys’ chores involved taking out the garbage and doing yard work with Dad. Girls’ chores included ironing, setting the table, picking up, watching younger siblings, and most dreaded of all, doing the dishes. We girls felt, to begin with, that the division of chores was unfair and of course they were, but this argument held no sway. We assigned ourselves turns at table setting and dish washing and drying. Although we had six girls for many years only three of us were old enough to do the dishes, Felicity, Gertie, and me. Our family made a mountain of dishes. Every evening after dinner there were dishes all over the kitchen Often we would get right to it, but there were always nights when we procrastinated, got interested in a program on TV, started reading a book, started a board game. If we waited just a little too long, Dad would snap. Then he would go out in the kitchen and do the dishes, his lips in a tight line. Then you were not allowed to jump in and help. You were banished from the kitchen and you slunk away to sulk in some corner of the house. Your banishment from parental favor would continue until the next day when you would usually, of your own free will, pitch in and complete some self-assigned chore to get back in Dad’s good graces. Even Mom would occasionally earn the silent treatment.
If Mom was the heart of our family, Dad was its conscience. He did not believe in holding others to a standard to which one did not hold one’s self. He also believed “actions speak louder than words.’ Although when we were young he sometimes had a “cocktail” or a “high ball”, by the time we were teenagers he did not drink at all and made it clear that he was disappointed if we did. Maybe he lucked out and missed out on that alcohol addiction gene which the rest of his family seemed to have inherited in spades, but it was clear that he exercised self-discipline. I never heard my father swear. Hobart’s worst curse was “Jesus H. Christ”, which made me nervous for his “immortal soul”. I learned about our “immortal soul” on the school bus. Every day I sat with a good Catholic girl, Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret helped me lament the fact that I wasn’t born Catholic. She told me that even if I converted, the best I could hope for was purgatory. I didn’t really buy into this as it seemed way less advantageous than my own religion in which going straight to heaven was a distinct possibility, but I did get attached to the idea of an “immortal soul.” Hobart never picked up a cigarette while he was my father, and he never mentioned whether he tried one as a young man. Dad’s father used to visit us on Sunday’s when we still lived in the city. He was a short, rotund Frenchman who wore a dark suit and tie and smoked big smelly cigars. He died when I was five. No one blamed his death on the cigars.
I don’t think my brother’s drinking or my smoking was a rebellious act against an inflexible parent. Although we did these things, it was always with the awareness of Hobart’s deep disappointment. His disappointment became ours, because, even though we did these things, we lost respect for ourselves as we did them. Just to drink or smoke proved that we were lacking in self-discipline.
Hobart had trouble dealing with a houseful of teen-aged daughters. He was extremely modest. We never saw either of our parents unclothed except in bathing suits or, rarely, pajamas. He not only had a houseful of teenage girls, but also, usually a houseful of teenage boys who were not family. He was adamant that we not appear downstairs until we were fully clothed. Gertie was the only daughter who did not take to modesty. She was the girl in the family who learned to change her entire outfit in the car, without showing anything at all. She was the sister who taught us how to remove our bra without taking off our shirt or blouse. She wouldn’t have minded changing in the middle of the living room. She taught herself the clandestine undressing techniques out of respect for Dad.
When Dad was in a light-hearted mood, he could be quite cheerful and fun. Sometimes when we did the dishes without argument or delay he would join us and treat us to a display of terrible yodeling until we were begging him to leave the kitchen. Or he would treat us to a chorus of “I have tears in my ears from lying on my back in my bed while I cried over you.” In a good mood he would give us lessons in how to turn a light switch on and off with a dishtowel. Most of us can probably still perform this amazing feat. We spent a lot of time trying to keep Dad cheerful, but we were young and selfish and many an evening went by without a yodel.
Hobart was also our hero, sometimes a very awkward one, but he hated to see his children hurt or unhappy. Once we stopped to get ice cream cones at an ice cream stand on the main road through Smithvale. I got to ride “shotgun”, a privilege I never usually won. I leaned against my door as we pulled out onto the highway and fell right out on the road. My father’s reflexes were so swift, that he stopped the car, jumped out and stopped traffic before I even started crying. After he comforted me, with his adrenalin levels probably through the roof, he took me back around and got me another ice cream, this time making sure my door was locked.
When I was living in the apartment by the park I had a very bad day, a day when I could not stop crying – probably PMS, although we did not have that term. Hobart appeared at my door, probably sent by Augusta. It was clear that he had no idea what to do but he had aspirin for me to take, and a few food delicacies that he picked up at the market. He made me take the aspirin right away and then give him a tour of the apartment. I was very touched by his gauche thoughtfulness and he did chase my blues away.
Luke said that I overlooked my father’s flaws. He said that, for one thing, we didn’t have to be so poor. He said that my dad could have been a foreman at the shop, but he could not force himself to go against his nature or his own wishes, even for the sake of his family’s finances. I remember that this had been a tough decision for my father. He took his position as a union steward very seriously and felt by becoming a management employee he would be betraying his fellow union members. I’m not sure how Luke got his information; probably he had talked about it with Robert. Anyway, Luke insisted that Hobart should have made this sacrifice for his family. It was certainly an interesting new take on my father, but I really didn’t agree. My father’s strict personal values were important to me.
I could, of course, go on and on about Hobart, who couldn’t write a whole book about their father, but I’m almost done for now. Hobart’s one other outstanding trait was his very fine brain. He was smart. He understood electronics intuitively and could have been an engineer if born into other circumstances. The house in Smithvale had antique wiring. Anytime we wanted to add a modern appliance Hobart had to go down into the cellar and perform some electrical magic. Eventually he reached the limits of the current wiring arrangement. When the wringer washer gave way to an electric washer and dryer and a new electric range was added to the kitchen, a 220 circuit had to be added. Hobart drew his plans, bought his supplies, and rewired the house adding a brand new electrical box. It had to be inspected by some official agency after it was installed. They tried to give Hobart a hard time but it was correctly done and they ultimately had to approve it. He took a home course in calculus, when he needed it to qualify for a job off the main line at work, and he passed it easily. He spent many a night with all of us around the dining room table before he worked nights, helping us with our homework. He made it clear to all of us that education had a high priority in his view. Every one in or family finished high school and five of us completed at least two years of higher education. Robert and his friends christened him with the nickname “Brain.”