Dad

[Calamity Jane]

Dad
By Jane E. Herrold


David Herrold was my Dad.
He bought my first car, my first horse, and a substantial education.
I stood in awe of him as I was growing up. A lifelong resident of the fishing berg, Ilwaco, Washington, he could run a chain saw like an electric knife, land and gut a giant prehistoric sturgeon, dig his limit of precious razor clams in minutes, and smoke salmon like no one else.

He was handsome and witty with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Even at 90 years of age, he was still a lady charmer. My Dad was the epitome of the strong, silent type with a boatload of integrity.
Like many of his generation he was given a nickname; “Easy.”

David Herrold taught his only daughter how to work hard
and showed enough trust to allow her to play equally as hard.
“Have fun, Tillicum,” he would insist.

Last year I found myself feeding him.
He died at the ripe age of ninety of complications from old age.
As he put it, “I’m all washed up, Jane.”

“So am I, Dad. So am I,” I would answer.

“You go have some fun, Tillicum,” he would always say, right on cue.

Dad had his own way of expressing himself in this “world according to David Herrold.”
“Dad-ism,” were always quotable and consistent.
About big boobs: “If she fell over she wouldn’t skin her nose.”
About beer guts: “Look at the bait tank on that guy.”
About the man who sells roadside yard art in Chinook;
“There’s the windmill guy—always there. He must have a mean wife.”
About someone who talks too much; “Her mouth goes like a goose’s ass.”
About crowds and traffic; “I’m like a cat in a bag.”

I became the family chauffeur, and every time we’d get ready to take off,
he’d quote Jackie Gleason by saying, “And awaaaay we go!”

Flatulence was a favored topic with my Father.
When things were good, he was “fartin’ in silk.”
His recliner was his “fart sack.”
About diarrhea; “I can’t fart with confidence.”

Sage advise regarding home repair projects;
“Just keep peckin’ away at it, Jane. Just keep peckin’ away.
Pretty soon it will be all done and you won’t have anything to bitch about.”
When the river was calm, it was “flatter than a snake’s ass.”
Tourists were “pukers.”
Family vacations were “goddamn safaris.”
Icy highways were “slicker than snot on a doorknob.”
Salmon with plum sauce was a “terrible thing to do to a fish.”

He called my horse “that bovine of yours.”
Cowboy the Chihuahua was my “sidekick.”
One of my boyfriends was “that poor bastard.”
Vegetarian restaurants were “seed joints.”
Patsy Cline was the only woman in history that could sing.
About loud rock music he’d say, “That’s a pretty tune…hehehe.”
Paying rent was “like pouring sand into a rat hole.”
And I was always “busier than a three-peckered Billy goat.”

The smell of gas always makes me nostalgic.
Although Dad was fond of making fart jokes, I mean the “GASOLINE” type, in this case.
Dad owned the hometown fillin’ station in downtown Ilwaco.
As a little girl he would let me run the hydraulic lift, sit in the cop cars being serviced, and experience the thrill of washing windshields.
“You Betcha!” he would retort when “the Pukers” thanked him.

Old “Easy” was born in 1912 in Ilwaco,
graduated from Ilwaco schools, lived in Ilwaco his entire life, except for his WWII tour of duty in the South Pacific, and now is buried next to my Mother in Ilwaco. (She died in 1978.)
He was the youngest of six children of pioneer residents Roy and Elfreda (Colbert) Herrold.
His father and grandfather operated fish traps on the west side of Sand Island in the Columbia River in an area known as “Oklahoma.” His mother, of local Chinook Indian descent, was born in a small village on the shores of the Columbia; Chinookville, a settlement long since disappeared.

Upon his return to Ilwaco after World War II,
he worked with his brother Harlan oystering at Cougar Bend on Willapa Bay.
He met Avis Mulhall of Ashland, Massachusetts, while she was visiting a childhood friend. When she returned home, David Herrold traveled cross-country to pursue her.
They were married in July of 1948 in Massachusetts,
but naturally, they returned to good old Ilwaco.

That’s where I came in.

An orphan now, like so many baby-boomers, I miss having a Dad who was a character and a folk humorist. I am honored to have been his buddy and his daughter.
The first time I picked up the phone to call him after he went to the “Happy Hunting Ground,” was to report that I finally got new brakes on my car.
He could stop hounding me every time he saw me,
“For Christ’s sake, Jane, when are you going to get that fixed? Nobody’s going to do it for you!”

And awaaaaay we go!

[Doreen Peri]

A delightful and heartfelt tribute!

I loved his descript sayings. Brought a smile to my face!

I feel like I knew him now.

Welcome to the Studio!

[stilltrucking]

Ilwaco is my Camelot. I was fortunate enough to spend the summer of 1976 working on a shrimp trawler there. I will never forget those cool misty mornings. It was peak experience of mine.

Precious memories of your father, I wish my sister had some of yours

[Ann Bingham]

A really beautiful story. A fitting tribute to a man who obviously inspired your life.

love lots

[joel]

Your dad must be a proud man; it's beautiful to love/be loved.

[Trevor]

At a quick glance my initial knee jerk reaction was, Ohhhhh Christ have mercy, not another ode to a loved one packed full of personal nostalgia that no one really truly cares about except the author. However, this one is different. Sure in terms of writing there are a few cheesy spots, but cheesy works if done right and accentuated with things a reader can relate to. But the big difference which sets this aside from the majority of other personal tribute pieces is -- it's engaging. The humor, and brand of humor is very accessible and enjoyable. Anyways, just wanted to say that I enjoyed your tribute piece. Thanks for sharing.

Trev

[mousey1]

Aha, look above me, it's Trevor...missing in action! Hey old sock!


This was a lovely story Calamity Jane. It sounds like your Dad was a real pip...a wonderful pip. Thanks so much for sharing this story it was most enjoyable. Made me think of my own Dad. Memories not all quite as pleasureable and sweet as yours, but I miss him all the same. Thanks again.

[Calamity Jane]

Howdy.....Thanks to you all for your comments about the "Dad" article. Don' think the old fart was any kind of saint. I suppose the essay DOES make him sound a bit like a cross between Mr. Rogers and Edward Abbey. The last two years of his life my Father never directing a sentence in my direction without one of the following three prefixes: "Christ Almight, Jane," "For Christ's Sake, Jane," or "Jesus CHRIST, Jane."
I plan to work on some other submissions and I thoroughly enjoy reading all your word works, as well. I need a new computer so I can keep up and participtate with less technical frustration. For Christ's Sake, Jane.....get on that!

[joel]

I look forward to reading what comes next. I hope that computer stuff gets figured out quickly and easily for you!