Remembering Dad
Retirement was not something either my Dad or father-in-law was interested in. In fact, it was like wrestling an angry grizzly to get them to do so. My Dad worked beyond retirement age

Thank You For Your Service, and So Much More

By Ed Kociela

They’ve been called The Greatest Generation and I can’t find a single reason to disagree.

These hardscrabble babies of the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, World War II, Korea, and parents of the Baby Boomers were made of stronger stuff than us.

With brave hearts and a willingness to work until the job was done right, they set a standard that no generation has approached.

We lost one of those magnificent people Thursday when John Edmund Curfew transitioned from this good Earth to, I am sure, a much more beautiful place.

He lived to the age of 96 despite a bout with childhood polio.

He drove a tank for Patton’s Third Army during World War II, an outfit that at one point endured 281 consecutive days of combat, suffered heartbreaking casualties and impacted innumerable lives as it battled across France and Germany.

He was a rancher, a trucker, an oil field supervisor.

Remembering Dad
John Edmund Curfew lived to be 96 despite a bout with childhood polio and he drove a tank for Patton’s Third Army during World War II across France and Germany.

He was a son, a brother, a husband, father, grandfather, great- and great-great-grandfather.

I could relate to him as I could to my own Dad, another one of those unsung heroes of The Greatest Generation. That’s about as high a compliment as I can muster because my Dad was my personal hero, cheerleader, friend, mentor. Like my Dad, my father-in-law didn’t talk much about his war experiences, and when he did, it was rarely a tale of blood and guts unless they were in their cups a bit and some of the unpleasantness seeped through.

Among the many lessons, I have learned along the way was the incredible strength and will these children of the Great Depression developed.

There were times when food was sparse, money was tight, and jobs disappeared in the wind.

But, while the rich, the fat cats, the privileged of that era were taking nosedives out of tall buildings to end it all, the children to whom simply waking to see another day was a privilege went to work to help their families, whether it was working the family farm or picking up odd jobs to help Mom and Dad make ends meet.

They never quit, even when disease and age were getting the better of them.

They had indefatigable spirits, a hope to make things better, the faith to carry them through the hard times, and even though the times may have been tough, they were tougher.

They were industrious. They didn’t have the internet to Google how to fix their old cars and trucks. That knowledge was hard-learned through years of taking care of their vehicles, machinery, or tools and figuring out how to do the repairs themselves because, well, it was just too damned expensive to hire a mechanic or replace them.

They didn’t have television to while away the hours. They were, for the most part, too busy working to take much time for leisure, but when they had a little free time it was mostly spent in front of the family radio, where their imaginations animated the voices coming through the speakers.

They were schooled not so much with traditional book learning, but at the School of Hard Knocks, which would occasionally batter them around. The word “quit,” however, never crossed their minds.

They had simple goals: work hard, raise a family, and provide the very best living they possibly could. They had no dreams of being superstars or captains of industry, they simply wanted to do right by those they loved.

Because they were raised during such trying times, they were always fearful because they knew how the bottom could fall out at any time without any warning. And, they knew how deep the bottom really was.

My father-in-law talked about milk-bread or onion sandwich dinners. He heard me talk once about my love for horses. He explained how his experience was different because any time he was on horseback it was to drive or herd cattle, not the pleasure riding I enjoyed.

Retirement was not something either my Dad or father-in-law was interested in. In fact, it was like wrestling an angry grizzly to get them to do so. My Dad worked beyond retirement age, not for extra benefits, but because, as he told me, “I want to go to work because I want to, not because I have to.” My father-in-law was pretty much the same, except he worked until his late 80s. And, because he was always up for a good adventure, his resume looks more like a travelogue as his work in the oil fields took him to Iran, Singapore, Algeria, Palma de Mallorca, Indonesia, Colombia, and a couple of stations in the U.S.

Even during his so-called “retirement”, he was busy.

There was his gardening. He could grow the most beautiful roses.

A portion of his front yard was given over to a xeriscape that he called “the desert,” which he tended lovingly.

He looked forward to a meal of what he called “beanie wienies,” a simple concoction of hotdogs mixed with pork and beans that harkened back to his herding days on the trail that he loved.

And, he always looked forward to his evening “sippy,” a generous slug of brandy on the rocks that he seemed to enjoy most if his beloved Denver Broncos were playing on the television. We had a family football pool each week, and he would take great joy those weeks when he would pick the most winners.

He had a zest for life and a determined will that took him all the way to the age of 96.

He could be incredibly stubborn at times but was also kind, gentle, and compassionate.

He was a veteran of life and all the crazy ups and downs that are a part of it, and he handled it with a certain aplomb.

He is a reminder, at least to me, that we should thank those members of The Greatest Generation for their life’s service.

They gave us the best they had, and for that, we should be grateful.

So we should raise a glass, share a “sippy,” and be thankful for all they did to make our lives better.

As we mourn their passing, we should also celebrate their remarkable lives.

So, cheers, Dad.

Love you.

And, if you run into my Dad, tell him hello for me. I’m sure you guys will get along just fine.


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Ed Kociela
Ed Kociela has won numerous awards from the Associated Press and Society of Professional Journalists. He now works as a freelance writer based alternately in St. George and on The Baja in Mexico. His career includes newspaper, magazine, and broadcast experience as a sportswriter, rock critic, news reporter, columnist, and essayist. His novels, "plygs" and "plygs2" about the history of polygamy along the Utah-Arizona state line, are available from online booksellers. His play, "Downwinders," was one of only three presented for a series of readings by the Utah Shakespeare Festival's New American Playwright series in 2005. He has written two screenplays and has begun working on his third novel. You can usually find him hand-in-hand with his beloved wife, Cara, his muse and trusted sounding board.

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