My dad was born in the mid 1930’s in Germany. He remembers hearing Hitler speak live over the radio. He grew up in an environment where guns where plentiful, bombs killed many of his friends, food was scarce, and some crazy shit went on. His father died in Operation Barbarossa during WWII. He sometimes tells me a story about his teacher as a kid – a priest, who was also a golden gloves boxing champ – would deal with troublesome kids by tying one arm behind his back and beating the crap out of the kid. It happened to him because a much older kid insulted him in school so he waited around a corner for the kid with a plank and put him in the hospital. He speaks fondly of that old priest.
He moved to the U.S., on his own, not speaking English, in his early 20’s because he didn’t want to get drafted in another German war, and made his way across the States as pipefitter, with no family or guidance. He lived a life that’s rough – like, Hollywood rough. Car chases through orchards with cops, once having to escape back to Germany because he sold his car to some guy and then stole it back that night, and it was the wrong guy to pull that crap on. He’s literally cut the chain on a closed Canadian border because he didn’t want his Porsche out in a snowstorm. He had licenses in over 10 states and provinces, back before records were kept digitally, so he could get around having his license taken away in individual states. His friends that I grew up calling “uncle” are a bunch of legbreakers, Hell’s Angels, and one guy who is serving time for murdering a guy who got too pushy asking for drugs. I think Uncle Dave is out soon - I kind of miss going on hunting trips with him. Then there's Uncle Raive who would rip the scalps off of guys he fought with his rings. One time I told him that one of my profs – a guy with a Spanish (see: Mexican) last name – was very rude and negative towards me and might negatively influence my getting into a grad program and I got a call from the head of the local chapter of the Hell’s Angel’s the next day asking if this guy needed to be talked to.
Growing up, he was sometimes gone for months at a time, him working *way* up north in weather that was -40 (Celsius) or lower before the wind chill, 12 hour shifts, oftentimes 7 days a week. He made a bloody fortune on overtime, and he'd come home and teach us to shoot guns, survive in the bush, value knowledge, and not take crap from people.
You north Americans think your dads are tough, but my Papa would kill the parade of pussies that are going to be listed in here. They beat him in a fight? He’s around the corner with a bat. They beat him with the bat? He’s going to come back with a gun. My Papa didn't win every fight, but the son of a bitch who beat him paid.
He is a scary man. I love the old fart. Not many people have lived the life he has. He's almost 80 now and I've spent years on the speech I'll one day give at his funeral, titled "hard man." If they made a movie about the guy, most of you pantywaists would be worshipping him as a "badass" or whatever pop-term you use to refer to people whose crap is bigger than you.
