In the end, The Old Man understood

Norman Peters came to visit The Old Man a few days ago.

They had been young once, back when Norman had hair and The Old Man, then 20, dated Norman's sister.

It was around that time The Old Man met another girl. She was sitting atop the woodbox in her aunt's house in Argonne, and from across the room, he thought she was cute. 

She was a Laona girl, and she stole him from Norman's sister.

Those were different days. But on this visit, The Old Man was happy and relieved to see Norman. It had been a while, and it would be their last time together.

"I was hoping you'd come," said The Old Man. They shook hands, and tears flowed.

After a few short minutes, two of The Old Man's sons walked Norman out to the porch. Norman told the boys — one 51, the other 37 — about driving back from Laona one night on a flat tire, and an almost-flat rim. He laughed for a few seconds, and shook his head. Those were good times.

These were not.

Inside the house, The Old Man was fighting cancer, two days from death. He was fading, and fading fast. Later that day, he was unable to speak. The next day, he was unable to take water.

Norman had not known The Old Man was in such bad shape. They hadn't seen each other since the previous autumn, shortly after The Old Man's esophagus was removed in surgery. This had been a shock.

"You talk about close," said Norman. "I was never that close to another man in my life. He was the best friend I ever had."

The girl atop the woodbox became The Old Man's wife three months later, on a hot September day in 1941.

They were impulsive, almost. But often correct. They were married 52 years, six months and three days, and raised five children.

He was, in many ways, an absentee father and husband.

The Old Man and No. 3 son on a walk
on the family property in the Town
of Nashville, Forest County, Wisc.
in 1961.

He was either working, or playing cards, or roaming the woods, hunting partridge or ginseng or an old homestead or an abandoned logging camp.

His wife raised the kids while he went from job to job, from logger to heavy equipment operator to petroleum distributor.

He retired at age 55 due to disabilities.

They didn't celebrate their wedding anniversary until their 50th, and they came to that party in separate cars. She caught a ride with one of their kids.

He rarely invited her to travel with him. It always puzzled her until a few weeks ago, when they sat on the couch, held hands and talked. And cried.

"You were always a couple of notches above those other people," The Old Man explained.

She had always been there for him, and this was no time to stop. He came home from the Veterans Administration Hospital in Iron Mountain, Mich., on March 14. 

Doctors there told him his cancer had never slowed, not after the surgery, not during the weeks of radiation, not during his rehabilitation.

They told The Old Man he had little time left.

He appreciated the honesty.

At the hospital, fluid was drained from his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. He was told he could come back to drain more fluid. It would keep him alive a bit longer. 

He said he wouldn't be coming back.

The Old Man was going home to die.

When his No. 3 son — The Old Man referred to his three sons and two daughters in numerical order — arrived home, his father could still converse, but it was a struggle to understand his words, and it was a struggle to look at The Old Man, his eyes sinking, his face thinning and unshaven, his once-broad shoulders now bony and weak.

The Old Man had asked No. 3 to look up the burial site of a childhood pal, somewhere near Pickerel Lake, and the son had found the unmarked grave under a massive pine tree, not far from where The Old Man's friend had lived.

The Old Man was happy that he finally knew where his friend was; it was one of his last nagging questions.

He and No. 3 had never been close. The Old Man couldn't understand why his youngest son didn't spend much time in the woods; his oldest sons "would have quit eating to go in the woods," he once said.

No. 3 was his only child to attend college, to permanently leave the area to pursue his career, to essentially turn his back on his father's ways. That left some bitterness, and some room for healing.

They had come to grips with their relationship in his final six months. No. 3 was in the Marshfield Clinic in September 1993 when The Old Man was diagnosed with cancer, he was in Milwaukee VA hospital in October when The Old Man had surgery, and he had visited him several times during his hospitalization.

"I finally understand you," The Old Man said during the last hospital visit at the Iron Mountain VA hospital.

No. 3 also had made several visits to the log cabin where his parents lived. Before last week, the last time was Wednesday, March 16.

The Old Man was in fairly good spirits, alert, talkative and appreciative of the visit.

No. 3 played his guitar that afternoon. As a child, he had played often for The Old Man and his friends, in living rooms and taverns and restaurants and gas stations and business showrooms throughout northern Wisconsin.

"Play 'Blues on My Mind,' and play it like you mean it," The Old Man would say.

No. 3 would roll his eyes, but dutifully play the Roy Acuff song. It was his father's favorite.

The Old Man's pals would listen and compliment the boy.

The Old Man would beam with pride, and tell his buddies that No. 3 must have gotten the talent from his mother.

But that was almost a lifetime ago.

He returned to his cabin — less than a mile from the site of his boyhood home — to rest in a hospital bed by the front window, placed there so he could watch the rural traffic. On that stretch of Forest County road, a car passing by is newsworthy.

His first week at home was relatively good, and many friends and neighbors paid their respects. It heartened him, but it also made him tired.

His children stopped as often as possible to visit their father and comfort their mother. No. 1 son was almost a daily visitor, and stayed for most of each day.

But it was a difficult and sometimes undignified final three days. No. 3 and his mother watched as The Old Man's systems shut down, and made him as comfortable as possible. They gave him water as long as he could take it, morphine pills every few hours, and kept him warm. They talked to him quietly, telling him who was visiting and how much he was loved.

He grunted in response, and struggled to breathe.

He began his final day in what seemed to be a coma, completely unresponsive.

His other four children were called. A brother and a sister and a nephew also came for a while.

Around 9 a.m., he rallied a bit, and seemed cognizant of those who spoke to him. He grunted in response. But his eyes stayed closed, and his arms were powerless at his side.

Most of the kids left between 6 and 7 p.m. The Old Man, resting quietly and comfortably, could make it through another night, it seemed.

But his breathing got more labored at 8:30. Morphine no longer worked. He groaned loudly with every breath.

He jerked suddenly at 9:30. A heart attack. His groaning quieted by 9:45, but the hard, heavy breathing continued for another 10 minutes, and soon gave way to shorter, more erratic breaths.

A "death rattle" began in his throat. He took four quick, very short breaths, and the gurgling in his throat ceased.

He was gone. It was 10:04 p.m., March 24, 1994.

His wife cried, and No. 3 began the painful, responsible task of calling his siblings with the news.

Earlier that day, around mid-afternoon, his children had said their farewells, one by one.

His oldest two sons promised to carry on his ways, giving Republicans hell and avoiding Chevrolets. "Your sermons weren't wasted on me," said No. 2.

The Old Man's daughters were quieter, their words more private.

No. 3 son was also quiet. And brief. The Old Man was breathing heavy, and the 37-year old boy whispered in his father's ear.

"I love you," said No. 3. "I'm going to miss you. I love you so much."

He cried.

And he understood The Old Man.

(The original version of this column was published in The Post-Crescent, Appleton-Fox Cities, Wisc., April 3, 1994. This version contains several edits.—DF)

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