A tribute to loving fathers and the value of education as the school year begins

The 1940 U.S. Census lists my Dad’s occupation as “Day Laborer” and so he labeled himself all his life, turning aside every opportunity for advancement because he believed himself to be “dumb.” It still makes me furious every time I think of it.

My Dad never made it through the fifth grade. He tried hard and it seems obvious that in the small West Virginia town where his older his brothers worked in the coal mines, the one room school, like nearly all in those days, wasn’t equipped for children with special needs.

Dad went to work doing odd jobs for the neighborhood grocery store. And finally, unbelievably, his mother began begging him to bring items home from the store for his brothers who couldn’t work. Of course he couldn’t pay for these things and finally he was fired, left West Virginia, joined the Marines then became a cowboy and a roustabout in the oil fields.

All his life he passed up opportunities because he believed he was not smart enough and that even casual passersby knew that he was a thief. And yet he built me a playhouse with real glass windows and working window seats that was so much nicer than the tar paper shack we lived in. I felt like a princess when I played in it, and yet I wondered why he had built me the house instead of improving our old one.

“Don’t you see?” a friend said. “He was trying to show you that he wished for you to have more than he had.”

And his wish came true. All his life, and so all of our lives, he believed in the power of education, and in 1952 he was able to scrape up the $82 tuition so that I could go to Gonzaga University in Spokane the first year that university admitted women., despite his belief that I’d just get married and never finish my degree. He was right.

So, these warm September days have become time to pause for my informal tribute to my father.

Today my Grandson called from the University of Minnesota, where he’s finishing his degree work. He has four subjects, he reports, and most of the first day’s lectures have focused on Artificial Intelligence. My son, teaching in LA, reports that he’ll be teaching from “Frankenstein” and “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Good to think that classes are back to normal.

It really is never too late to learn. Earlier I wrote that I never finished my degree, since according to the rules of the time, I had caught a husband and had to go home. But that wasn’t quite the whole story. In 1983, as a new widow with no job skills, I entered a small university in Portland and the first class changed my life.

“What,” they asked, “have you learned well enough to design a class and teach it to someone else?”

We all could think of three to five subjects — and were then tasked with actually designing and teaching the class. Never forget, the teacher said triumphantly, “You have not wasted 50 years. You’re ready to build!”

Now naturally, students are very different over the years. In my one-room schoolhouse our teacher, Mrs. Brown, taught a tight ship. No talking, no disorder, no getting out of seats.

I’m thinking of going back to school. Living here in Never Never Land, I frequently hear someone say, “Thank heaven all my learning days are behind me!” Really? Please accept my sympathies. It’s never too late to get started. Grandpappy — or your special person — will be so proud.

Where to find Dorothy in September

9 a.m. Monday, Sept. 8: Coffee, Chat and Change the World. Get entry link at Dorothy@itsnevertoolate.com

Catch the latest episode of Swimming Upstream Radio Show at www.itsnevertoolate.com