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http://www.omniture.com --> Sections Home Page Local News AP News Archives Business Classifieds Event Calendar Forums Life Opinion Obituaries Photo Gallery Since We Asked Sports Tempo Weather Special Coverage 2006 Britt Festivals --> Shop Our Valley AutoFinder HomeFinder JobFinder Search Our Valley Special Sections Homelife Magazine Joy Magazine Readers Choice 2006 Oregon Golf Info Oregon Wine Info Our Valley Other Publications Local Links Ashland News eSouthernOregon Newspapers In Education Personals Moving Here Movie Listings TV Listings Volunteer Customer Service Advertise With Us Media Kit Place Classified Ad Contact Us FAQ's Home Delivery Site Map --> Email Story to a Friend June 18, 2006 Dad was tall in my eyes The toughest — and most important, hands down — job a man will ever have is being a father. Unfortunately, it's largely on-the-job training that results in periodic blundering along the way for most of us. Nobody teaches us how to react when a child cries over a broken toy, when a family crisis arises, when an urchin asks where babies come from. The answer to the baby question is simple: Go ask your mother. But, for the most part, I recall a lot of stammering and stumbling over my children's formative years. We fathers tend to grope our way, guided by instinct, moments of panic and by what little knowledge we may have gleaned from our fathers. I'm still learning about what I learned from my father, born in Ashland on June 17, 1906. That's right — a century ago yesterday. Paul R. Fattig Sr. played in Lithia Park as a youngster before attending Uniontown School in the Applegate Valley. After surpassing his father's third-grade education, he quit school upon completing the eighth grade. I recall seeing his eighth-grade report card filled with straight A's. During the Great Depression, he joined FDR's Civilian Conservation Corps, followed by a stint in the Merchant Marine before returning to Oregon to work in the logging woods and sawmills. Years after his first wife died during childbirth, he eventually met the woman who would be my mom. They made up for their late start by producing five children in three and a half years, including two sets of twins 14 months apart. My twin, George, and me, were the last of the litter. Apparently having run out of names, they decided to name me after our patriarch. We arrived late in his life; he left early in ours. A heavy smoker, he died of cancer early in 1961 at age 54 when I was 9. I can't imagine the anguish he must have felt upon being told that he was dying from cancer, that he would soon leave a widow and five young children behind. As a junior, I lived more than a half-century under a Damocles sword in that I took it for granted I would die at the same age my father did. I know. It doesn't make sense. So much happy horse hockey, as a professor of mine was wont to observe. Yet I couldn't help feeling relieved when the ides of March came and went this year without a visit from the Grim Reaper. According to my calculations, that's the date when I began living longer than my father. It was like sliding safely into home. Horse feathers or not, when it came to my psyche, my lease on life had been renewed. In retrospect, it seems odd that a man I never knew well — certainly not well enough to breed contempt --would have such an impact on my life. "When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around," Mark Twain once wrote. "But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." Twain was fortunate. He was able to grow with his father, and presumably his father with him. My father wasn't there when I reached the ripe old age of 14. I grew up believing he was the smartest person around. His strength of character was demonstrated when he lost his right leg at the hip during a logging accident in the mid-1950s. Hobbling around on one foot, he became a self-taught botanist, built a greenhouse and started a small nursery. He stood tall in my eyes. But I am reminded of the day when my daughter Amy came home from her first day at school. She was mightily impressed with her elementary school principal, a gentle giant who stood 6' 5". "Dad, Mr. Webb is almost as tall as you are!" she exclaimed. Actually, he was nearly a foot taller. She would never say it, but I suspect that life's experiences, familiarity and a university degree has cut me down to proper size in her now-adult eyes. Indeed, I would learn years later that my father, like all fathers, had a few chinks in his armor. For instance, his rationale for voting for Richard Nixon in 1960 was based on his concern that JFK's Catholicism would dictate his presidency. I've always voted for the person, not the religion. But his inner strength, humor and basic wisdom has withstood the years. And I've often wondered what he would think of his offspring. I like to think we all turned out all right, even the one that faltered, becoming a journalist. Reach reporter Paul Fattig at 776-4496 or at [email protected] Advertisement s Mail Tribune Home | Local News | Sports | Business | Obituaries | Life | Opinion AP News | Archives | Site Map | Community | Classified Copyright © 1997-2006 Mail Tribune, Inc. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy | Terms & Conditions | Website Feedback online casinos news Home Security Systems California Casinos Men's Clothing Southern Oregon Loans --> GMAT Prep Fundraisers Send Flowers Texas Electric Choice Entertainment Guide --> Casinos Canada Trunks, Footlocker Online Casino Reviews