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Father's Day

Found in: | Outside | Fishing |

The elevator bell rang a sharp brassy ding. The doors opened up to a view of downtown Albuquerque through the huge plate-glass windows. Around the corner from my office, outside in the cold spring winds, ironworkers were hard at work.

Passing by I turned up my coat collar and heard the men hollering back and forth. One gave orders to a crane operator and a repeating dull thud of mallet on metal filled the air. Like a sculptor shapes clay, these guys turned what looked to me like a tangle of iron and concrete into a downtown building. A young guy about 10 years my junior, worked near the street as I passed by. This kid heaved heavy re-bar on his shoulder. His tool belt hung low on his waist from a spud wrench and his clothes were flecked with burns from welding. His hard hat sported the Ironworker Union emblem and my heart swelled with pride.

Dad was an ironworker. Ernest Springer walked the I-beams until the heavy work got the best of him. Injuries put him in retirement a bit early. As a youngster, I never fully understood how hard he had to work, and maybe I still don't. But this Father's Day is different now than all the others before. I'm seeing through another lens the sacrifices that my dad made.

Spending time outdoors was always a priority for us; we explored the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. We traipsed all over the Jemez Mountains where he had roots when I was a little guy, fishing for trout, seeking adventure. A job took us to Ohio in my eleventh year and fishing the creeks for smallmouth bass made an indelible impression. When I was big enough to handle a shotgun, Dad introduced me to quail and pheasant hunting, not too unlike what he experienced in the bottoms along the Rio Grande near Bernalillo. He wanted me to know the sporting life.

Some things I will never forget - things that should always serve as a reminder to me and other fathers. In summer, dad would come home from work, lunch box in hand, covered in dirt, sore and tired. The mid-summer sun darkened his arms and neck from being outside all the time. But dad had a father's devotion. He still somehow had the energy to take me fishing for the evening.

I can recall a good number of summer evenings on nearby lakes or creeks, watching the sun go down while I hoped for one last bluegill or a rock bass. Not once over four years did dad miss one of my baseball games or practices. I still remember holding his hand walking into the sporting goods store to get my first ball glove. Those were the fun things. Dad had to make the tough calls, too, to keep me on the right track, for which I am also appreciative.

This Father's Day takes on a special meaning for me. This will be the first such day without my dad. He died late last year, leaving me with many memories and a dearth of answers to questions I never got to ask.

Some of those questions arose after his passing. Five days after Father's Day, June 25, marks a dubious 60th anniversary - the beginning of the Korean War. If history had an orphan, it would be "the Forgotten War." Dad served in Korea, a rifleman in the Second Division, a division marred with the highest per capita losses in the war. It was a meat-grinder, vicious and unspeakably violent heightened by brutally cold weather. Korea was an experience he simply would not discuss. Dad lamented that when he came home, it was as if no one even knew he had been to war. World War Two vets were adored, Viet Nam vets sadly scorned, and Korean vets - simply ignored.

He couldn't hide his limp. Grenade shrapnel earned him a Purple Heart. Only on the day of his military committal at Santa Fe National Cemetery did we learn that he had earned a Presidential Citation for heroism. He never spoke a word about what his unit did to earn it.

Dad was one of the lucky ones. In 37 months, 899 men from the Four Corners states gave there all: 306 from Colorado; 199 from New Mexico; 146 from Utah; 248 from Arizona. Dad was proud to have served in the Second Division, and he was a dad second to none. His devotion to duty and actions that sit with me, they remind me of the words of our nation's first forester. Gifford Pinchot wrote in his 1939 book Fishing Talk, "Whenever you go, and whenever you can, take the youngster along."

That's good advice that all fathers should heed. I'm glad my dad got me outdoors.

Craig Springer writes from Santa Fe County, NM.