The Hometown Hero, My Daddy!

I guess to most girls growing up, one of their first heroes is their Daddy. To me, that was no exception, however, I had ample proof as a young girl that my Dad was a hero to more than me and on community-wide levels.

One such instance was when I was very young. My parents and I were in our old, beat-up, blue Chevy pickup truck and coming toward Leavenworth Road on 77th Street from Pomeroy.

I remember the night clearly. It was dark and we had been to visit some relative or other when we heard an almost speaker-like voice bouncing off the buildings around the intersection. People were standing and sitting in packs all along the road, heavily concentrated on what was happening at the gas station across the street. 

As usual, our truck was in need of gas, or more likely, my Dad needed some cigarettes, and he pulled over into the station. We saw a woman with dark red hair being held firmly by the arm by one of the gas station attendants dressed in a dark blue uniform with a symbol on his shirt. The woman’s cheeks on her face were a brilliant scarlet red. It was obvious she had been crying hard for a long time. 

My Mom, who was no less a hero in the eyes of the young girl riding in the truck, and very kind-hearted, jumped out of the truck to see if she could help the woman. She believed the woman must have been attacked and that the gas station attendant was trying to assist her. She thought having a woman around might give her ease until something could be done for her.

She walked up to the couple to inquire what was wrong.

“Oh, this is my wife, and we are just having an argument,” the man said. 

Immediately, the woman, desperate for help, said in a stringent voice, “He’s not my husband!”

Double-quick, the man slapped her across the face with his free hand, nearly knocking her off her feet/unbalancing her. The next thing that occurred was so quick that my Mom said she never knew it was happening until it was over.

A large, muscular, hairy arm reached past her and grabbed the startled attendant by the collar and lifted him. He set him over to the side like a doll. Unfortunately, all this time, the gas attendant had his hand tangled in the woman’s hair, and she was pulled at the same time. 

“Call the police!” the attendant yelled back at his teenage assistant, who was nervously standing back from the entire debacle. 

The woman was able to get loose from the man, and Mom held her lightly but firmly with one hand around her wrist. She was going to ensure that the woman stayed put when the police were called, and there would be no question as to who was attacking whom and why.

Dad was a dark blonde, 6’ 1” tall, muscular build with big, hairy arms. He was a very strong man who had been working heavy labor, manual jobs since he was in the elevators at age thirteen and man-like chorse since he was a mere child who could walk. He was the son of an even stronger father known for his strength in the family as well as the surrounding community. But that is a different story for later. (smile!)

Faced off with a man twice his size, the dark-haired little man, obviously intoxicated, grabbed a crowbar to come at my Dad. That did not bother my father much since he pulled a round-point, long-handled shovel from the back of the truck.

“Come on,” my Dad snarled at the man, bracing himself for a fight. It was not the first time he had to fight out a situation, mostly with his bare fists.

Immediately, the man ran into the gas station and locked the door until the police arrived.

Once there, the woman told them and my mother that the man was not her husband but a friend of the husband who was living with them. He was intoxicated when she stopped to drop off something, and it escalated from there. 

As the police arrested the gas station attendant and the woman rushed to her car to escape her ordeal, the people from across the street began drifting en masse over and talking about all that had occurred. 

It was probably enough that the voyeurs around that evening had seen everything that happened and how my parents went out of their way to assist another individual in need, but there was a very young boy who saw the entire thing. 

He was one of a family, who had a herd of boys well known in our community, rode his bicycle up and down Leavenworth Road for the next week or more, sharing the story about “Big Bill” and how heroic my Dad had been during the entire escapade. Dad was already well known in the area for his own self and business as well as Mom for her work, but this seemed to enlighten and delight the entire community for several years. 

“He had been hitting her for over half an hour,” one young woman said that night as she crossed the street to converse with my Mom. “We kept wondering why no one bothered to call the police.” 

Yes, we all thought, why didn’t you?!

*****

Unfortunately, many people’s inactivity to assist someone in need is not a one-time thing. It happens all too frequently. 

A recent example is when a policeman was on the street trying to subdue a drunk. The drunk started getting the upper hand and beating the policeman’s head on the street to kill him. The policeman had no alternative but to use his gun to shoot the drunk. 

How do we know all the facts of the case? There were many onlookers who cared mostly about getting the scene on video with their phones rather than doing anything to assist the police officer. If they had, perhaps both men would have survived until backup came. 

What would you do?