Memories of My Dad

Oliver (O.C.) Stringer was born on June 12, 1920 as the only child into a Central Illinois farming family. It was a much simpler time in our country’s history and of course there were no computers or cell phones. If you had a phone at all it used the fence wire that ran along the miles of open country roads and it had a crank on it to make it ring farther down the line.

The country was just recovering from the ravages of World War 1 and life on the farm was all work and he did plenty of that growing up helping his dad. They did not farm a lot of acreage back then compared to today’s super farms and they did not have modern equipment either. They did manage to get a 1939 John Deere G for the plowing, disking and harvesting of the crops that was mostly corn. As with a lot of tractors from that era it had steel wheels so there was no chance of getting a flat tire.

My dad’s dad, Neal, was the county “fix it man.” People would come for miles around bringing him mechanical implements to be repaired or anything else in general. So he knew a lot of people and was a good man. Then tragedy struck and Neal died in my dad’s arms. His only son, Oliver was just 21 years old at the time. As was the custom back then the funeral was held at the house and when word spread that he had passed away at age 51 the cars that followed his casket to the cemetery stretched out for over 2 miles. He was well liked and an honest man.

Not long after Neal’s passing the United States was attacked by Japan and many men were drafted into the service. Oliver, my dad was exempted for two reasons. He was the only son to run the much needed farm and he had flat feet making him 4F. He wore arch supports his entire life. Growing up with a fix it man rubbed off on Oliver and he was a great fix it man his entire life but I would argue that genetics must be involved because I can fix things but not as well as Oliver did and both of my sons seem to have the same family trait.

It was during the war years when Oliver was driven to inspiration by desperation. Rubber tires and the tubes that went inside them were only available to Doctors, the Fire Department and the police. He needed an inner tube for the flat tire on a farm vehicle, the one he had was no good any more. So he had an idea and took a valve stem from a larger inner tube from a tractor tire and shaped it with a knife to fit into the hole on the rim tightly. He glued it into place and made sure that the rim and the tire bead were smooth. Put it all together without an inner tube and put air into it. It worked but he didn’t put any more air into it than needed. This was unheard of at the time and his mother was very angry at him for doing such a thing. Just two years later tubeless tires were invented.

My grandmother Lela got remarried, possibly so Oliver could leave the farm and make his own way in the world. He worked at farms doing odd jobs and scooping corn for $3.00 per week. He married my mom Clara and their house rent was $5.00 per month. Mom told me that it was hard to pay that much. Oliver got a job working as a welder in an implement factory and I came along on December 19th, 1945. They were just getting by in life with no real future on the horizon.

Oliver’s Uncle Morrie, nicknamed “Uncle Poppy,” had relocated to Gary, Indiana and got a job as switchman on the EJ&E Railroad. He then called his nephew Oliver in 1948 and said, “I can get you a job on the railroad.” So Oliver packed up and left for work on the railroad. It didn’t pay a lot but was far greater than no work in Central Illinois. After he got established he sent for Clara and they built a modest home in the Midget Farms area of Hobart, Indiana.

But let me back up a little bit on this part of the story. I almost never was. At Christmas time in 1948 I was just 3 years old and my mother Clara and I traveled from Decatur, Illinois to Chicago, Illinois by bus to see Oliver. That was okay but the return trip was quite different. Oliver put us on the bus in Chicago for the return trip but when we arrived in Decatur, Clara and I both passed out when we got off the bus.

We were asphyxiated and didn’t know it. The bus had a carbon dioxide exhaust leak in the back where we were sitting and when we stepped out into the fresh air we went unconscious. As a 3 year old I bounced back very quickly and was okay but they took Clara to the hospital and she needed stitches in her forehead from the fall. I remember strange people watching over me in the bus terminal. Word reached Oliver at the railroad and they told him he couldn’t leave but he left anyway. He was threatened with either being fired or facing disciplinary action but in the end they didn’t do anything.

I remember growing up and watching him fix things, including welding them if need be. I watched and I learned a lot of things from him. Still the farmer at heart, he did rent some land for a couple of years and raised soy beans using borrowed farm equipment from his Uncle Morrie. Then he got into the landscaping business putting in new lawns for the many subdivisions under construction in the area. He was able to purchase a brand new 1953 Farmall Super C with a grading blade attachment. The reason it was a Super C was it had 21 hp instead of the regular 18 hp.

I was just 8 years old and he would take me with him on jobs. I learned how to handle a rake and shovel well into my teen years doing the hand work up close to the houses where the tractor couldn’t reach. He was a master in using that tractor, first he would grade the yards for proper drainage then smooth them out like billiard tables. All without a transit, he did it by eye and got it perfect every time. We usually planted grass seed but we also did a lot of sod work.

At the time he was still working at the railroad while putting in new lawns. Sometimes he would go to work afternoons and it was my turn in the tractor seat to finish up the lawn work for that day. I still have that tractor which I am in the process of restoring.

We lived in a semi-country setting and when I was about 14 years old I had a neighborhood chum whose parents were much older and were from the “Old country.” His dad didn’t even speak English and he was in his 80’s. My dad somehow heard that the wooden bridge that they needed to use to get over a small creek was in disrepair so he went to look at it. The next day Oliver went and got some used railroad ties and fixed it for them knowing that they were too poor to pay him for doing that. It was either then or shortly thereafter that the 80 year old man was turning over the garden by hand with a shovel that he always planted in the spring and it was very hard for him to do. Oliver went to their house and rototilled the garden for him free of charge. That old man stood there watching him do it with tears of gratitude rolling down his cheeks. He was very thankful.

Always helpful and generous without a lot to give my mom and dad took groceries to the family of a man that worked at the railroad that didn’t take care of his family. He would get his paycheck and go fishing until the money ran out. They fed that family quite a few times.

My dad would go on fishing trips with men he worked with at the railroad and sometimes he would take me with him. One experience comes to mind when we were trying to fish on the Tippecanoe River but it had been raining all day. We had supplies with us to camp on the river bank and as it started to get dark they found a spot and I was sleeping in the boat. Everything was wet but they went and got firewood anyway and poured some gasoline on it to start a fire. It was dead calm out and they didn’t know it but the fumes from the gas had traveled down the river bank and circled the boat. Just as they struck a fusee flare to start the fire I lifted the rain cover off of me to see a lot of flames rushing to the boat with me in it. I jumped out of that boat almost into the river half scared to death. Of course they all had a nice laugh.

I always had a great relationship with my dad and we both liked to play pool. He played pool at the local Isaac Walton club where he was a member and I played at other places like bowling alleys. I was a young adult and my wife and I were visiting them when he suggested that we go to the Club to play pool and have a beer. It was only a mile away but I had to leave earlier so we both drove. We must have played 8 ball for two hours, laughing, teasing, drinking beer and having the time of our lives. Everyone was watching us play but no one there knew me. I looked at my watch and said, “My time is up, I have to go.” We said our good byes and my dad stayed to play some more. One of the members spoke up and said, “You and your buddy sure had a good time playing pool.” Then my dad said, “That was my son.” They were dumbstruck and didn’t really want to believe him but he convinced them. You must understand that not all fathers and sons have great relationships.

By then it was 1970 and I was having trouble getting a good paying job myself and my dad did not want me working at the railroad because of the drinking and gambling going on, not to mention the many unsavory characters. In the end though he relented by keeping me away from the switchmen and engineers by getting me a job in the signal department. I now had a steady paying job with insurance.

Then in 1972 we saw our first air house. It was called a “Moonwalk.” It was a novel idea at the time but my dad believed we could make money with one. He got a co-worker to sign for him at the credit union and he bought one. I got involved with it as well and we did well over the years with it. Then in 1976 “Elephant Ears” were the going thing at the fairs so my mom and dad got an old travel trailer and converted it to an Elephant Ear wagon. They were busy with that so I took over the Moonwalk business for a few years then gave it over to my oldest son.

They did very well with the Elephant Ears over the years evolving into new trailers and bringing my sister Doris into the business which she still does to this day.

Imagine Oliver not being busy enough, he belonged to an antique engine and steam club where he would show his collection of small gas engines people used to use on the farm for small chores. Then he found the time to build a quarter scale saw mill from scratch that was belt driven. He would take it to steam shows and saw lumber displaying it how it worked. One time he went with a friend of his to a museum and they were admiring a Rumley Oil Pull which is an antique gas fired tractor with steel wheels. One of the curators stopped by and told them that they couldn’t get it running and it hadn’t run for over 30 years. Say no more. Oliver and his friend John spent about an hour tinkering with it and got it running. It’s all in understanding how things work.

Things were pretty good for everyone and I helped dad build his new house on ten acres out in the country. It was when you could buy the “shell” of a home that wasn’t finished inside. We did all of the electrical wiring, plumbing, drywall work, floor tile and carpeting. He couldn’t find anyone to build the brick fire place in the basement and brick up the chimney. So him and I did it.

Since it had a basement he got a pool table and of course we put it together down there. I bet we played hundreds of thousands of games of pool on that table and of course having a great time doing that. We grew tired of 8 ball and a friend had introduced me to carom billiards. A much more challenging game. Using just the cue ball and any three numbered balls the idea was to get a “hit” by striking two other balls with the cue ball. That was one point. Hit all three with the cue ball gets you eleven points and you got 5 points for every ball you pocketed. You continued to rack up points as long as you made a hit but if you scratched all the points you have accumulated on that run you lost. If you missed and didn’t make a hit then they would go into your bank. Game is 50. Lots of English on the cue ball and plenty of angles to figure but it was a ton of fun. We would rather play pool together than eat.

On his 70th birthday on June 12th, 1990 I went to his house to see him. For some reason and I don’t know why but I felt compelled to give him a hug. I was 44 years old at the time and I didn’t usually hug him. To anybody reading this you are still your dad’s little boy no matter how old you are. I am so happy that I hugged him that day because just 5 days later on June 17th, Father’s Day that year he passed away.

I remember riding in the family car on the way to the cemetery and my sister looked back at the procession and said, “Dad was right, you can measure a man’s popularity by the size of his funeral.” We couldn’t see the end of it.

We had a get together at a restaurant in a private room after the funeral where everyone gathered and I gave a slightly choked up eulogy about my dad. I finished my talk with, “I guess that so many things needed fixed in heaven that God had to call the only man that could fix all of them.” I sat back down next to my youngest son and he said to me, “Got a little choked up there didn’t you?” I asked, “Could you have done it?” He said, “No, not even close.”

William O’Neal Stringer