On the first day of winter, 2007, my father Carl King died. His physical body went vacant one evening after a routine day at his nursing home. He had woken late, watched some TV in his pajamas, had a visit from a lovely friend who brought him a little Christmas tree for his room. Some time after dinner I called and the nurse picked up the phone after many rings. She handed him the phone, but he wasn’t able to carry on a conversation. His hearing has been pretty iffy for a while now and this was not unusual. So I asked the nurse to tell him that the dog and I would pick him up the next morning to take a ride up to Vandalia. We did this every few weeks when I went to pick up some coffee. We always rode around to two or three places with my dachshund on his lap. We would stop for some fish, pick up ice cream in Yellow Springs and head back to Xenia. But it turned out that the last time we had done that was actually the absolute last time we would ever have that afternoon together.
Later that evening my brother called. The nursing home had called him and said that Dad was not responsive. He was unable to speak or swallow. The recognition had gone from his eyes. Within hours, he was mostly sleeping and not even able to squeeze a hand.
He did not want to live without hope of enjoying his life. He had told us this many times, especially after his sister Ardis had suffered a stroke and was healthy but unresponsive for several years. The last time that he had seen her alive was one of the only times I ever saw my father reduced to tears.
The unanimous decision was made to do nothing beyond providing comfort to him. Within a couple of days, he had passed away peacefully. He had a full measure of life. After 98 1/2 years he had seen two World Wars, the Great Depression, a dozen presidents or so, and gone from a farm boy to the patriarch of a family of nearly 40 descendants.
He was born in 1909 near Wilmington, OH on King Rd., a little gravel dust generator named after his ancestors. He walked down the road at 4 and they let him into the one room schoolhouse with his older sisters. They rode the wagon or a sleigh into Martinsville for a big day on the town. He graduated at 16 and moved to Dayton to go to Miami-Jacobs business school. He wooed and won my mother, a pretty red head named Lucille. He found work as a night clerk seven days a week at a Dayton hotel for 120 dollars a month. Sold a little bathtub gin to the guests during prohibition.
Had a son, another Carl, in 1931, worked selling vacuum cleaners, as a machinist at NCR, bought and sold some land, and when WW II was over, called about an ad offering new Ford Tractor dealerships. He had some cash from selling his farm near Brookville and just needed to find a good farm town. Luckily, he found Xenia. Here he built a house, a business and a family. I was born, then Nelson, and then Pam, all by 1950, our own little baby boom to match the one our nation was going through.
He met the farmers and the townspeople and treated them fairly, worked long hours, and did well. His business flourished for 25 years through three locations, finally ending up on Rt. 68 South on a dead end road we named King Lane. In the 60's he became President of the Ohio Farm Implement Dealers Assoc. He joined Kiwanis Club and met a couple of other businessmen, Jack Kennedy and Bill Eichman, who encouraged him into running for city commission and, to his surprise, he won a seat. He helped push the powers that be to get Xenia connected to Dayton with a new four lane highway, now Route 35. He had a hand in opening the Pinecrest Swim club.
He drove a tractor onto Shawnee Pond several cold winters and pushed off snow for the skaters. He gave hay rides at the Shawnee Fall Festival. He worked for days on the Kiwanis Ox Roast. He took P.D. Wickline’s FFA boys to the Ford Tractor plant in Dearborn, MI. He not only did well, he did good. It always seemed to me that he knew everyone in town. And that was not always a comfortable thing for a teenager growing up in a small town.
In 1969 he sold his business and began to travel in earnest. He and my Mom went all over the US and Mexico in their Airstream trailer. Then Mom got breast cancer and died in 1972 at age 61.
He went on with his life eventually and remarried, moved to Key West, fished and tinkered, worked a little at the golf course and generally enjoyed his retirement. After ten years there he proudly became a “freshwater Conch.” He continued to be active into his 90's until the loss of most of his eyesight made it impossible for him to drive. Then he got an unexpected divorce at age 92 (don't ask) and had to sell his home in the Keys.
He had been back in Xenia now for a couple of years but he found that most of his old friends and associates had preceded him into the great hereafter. When he met someone around town, he was a little embarrassed that he couldn't recognize who was talking to him. He had always been secretly shy behind his friendly facade, and this was more apparent in his later years. He continued to play a winning game of Euchre, made friends with dogs, and never ceased to speak his mind and appreciate the company of pretty women. In the end, he passed quietly and painlessly from this earth. He wanted it that way, and we are all glad that he got his way one last time.
© 2007 Alan D. King