Everlasting Memories: A Tribute to Mom and Pop

This photo from the '70s shows (l-r) my late dad,
Leonard  (or "Slim," as he was nicknamed)
Testorff, with my stepson, Jeff, and yours truly,
during a fishing trip while on vacation in my
hometown of Oswego, KS.

"Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he can feed himself for life."

According to wiki.answers.com, the origin of this quote is unknown, although it's generally cited as being Chinese. Over the years, the quote has been misattribued to Confucius, Lao Tzu, Laozi, and Guan Zhong. Irrespective of who coined this phrase, the fact remains that I've always felt it applies to my life.

As young boys, running around playing such games as hide 'n' seek and cowboys and Indians, my younger brother and I often would corner Pop the moment he arrived home from work and turned into the driveway. He'd stop to let us hop on the running board of his old pickup and ride it to the top of the driveway, all the while badgering him to take us fishing that evening. Those times he caved in to our persistence, we'd all sit down to a quick bite of dinner together with Mom (the late-Mable Bigham-Testorff), then grab our rods; tacklebox containing hooks, sinkers and bobbers; whatever bait we had available or could come by or purchase en route; and a jug of ice water and head to one of our favorite spots on the river (the Neosho River), to a local farm pond, to one of any number of nearby strip-mining pits, or to a small lake just down the hill from our home, aptly named Horseshoe Lake because of its design.

I know there were many times during those early years when the last thing Pop felt like doing when he got home from a hard day's work as a self-employed carpenter was taking us two boys fishing--and he sometimes begged off with a promise to do it the next evening or perhaps on Saturday. Naturally, we were disappointed anytime he asked for a "rain check," but we also knew better than to bug him about it once he had made up his mind. I probably should explain here that Pop was a big man, who, in his prime, stood about 6' 2" tall. He also was strong. Working as his helper during my summer breaks in high school, I regularly saw him carry a full square (three bundles) of composition shingles up a ladder when we were shingling roofs. To anyone who thinks that's an easy task, I say: Try it. The point I'm making here is that Pop knew how to keep my brother and me in line. If he said "no," we shut our yaps and kept them shut--case closed. Backtalking simply wasn't an option in those days, not in our home, not with our dad. And, if we made the mistake of doing it with Mom, we ultimately had to deal with Pop about it, and I figure you probably can guess how that usually went down. Let's just say it often was another of those "it's gonna hurt me worse than you" sessions.

Pop with his first-born, "Kenny boy,"--
as I was known throughout much of
my youth. At the time this photo was
taken, Pop just had returned from
World War II duty with the U.S. Army
and fighting in the Pacific campaign.

There probably are a couple of reasons accounting for Pop being the strict disciplinarian that he was. First, his dad (my Grandpa T) had been tough on him when he was a kid, and because of the lean times everyone in the country was going through, coupled with the fact that Pop was the oldest of five siblings, he was expected to help make the family farm prosper as much as possible. As a result, he had to quit his education and never did graduate from high school.

Then came World War II, and Pop got called up twice before all was said and done. He hadn't much more than gotten home and started working to support his young bride than he received his second notice and had to report back to combat. I often heard him talk about what he lived through overseas and now can appreciate how/why those experiences would make him the way he was.

Over the years, I watched Pop mellow considerably, especially after he became a born-again Christian in the '50s, but he always demanded and received the respect of his two sons. I've told many people during my lifetime that I firmly believe it was Pop and his demanding ways that always have kept me out of trouble, a stance I'll support to my dying day. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a phrase I heard often. In my opinion, it's a philosophy that would do well to see a resurgence, given the caliber of youth I encounter these days. However, I don't want to get sidetracked too far here.

Well do I remember and cherish the days of my youth when my brother and I would accompany Pop to the banks of a creek to dig fishin' worms or to seine crawdads. Please note here that neither my brother nor I ever touched a crawdad 'till Pop had removed the pinchers. Sometimes, then, he would have my brother and I chase down a jar full of grasshoppers in the field across from where we lived. Other times, he would buy some shrimp from our friend who owned and ran the grocery store near our home, or we'd capture some spring frogs for bait.

These ventures, however, weren't without their hazards. My brother, God bless him, always seemed to attract every chigger within a country mile. He would get eaten alive when Pop took us to the creek banks to dig for worms. Mom then would have to doctor him from head to foot with Campho-Phenique. And if the chiggers didn't get him, just the scent of poison oak or ivy would. Mom then would have to break out the Calamine lotion and coat him all over.

While the chiggers didn't bother me much, and I seemed to be immune to poison oak and ivy, I do remember an incident I had with some yellow jackets. It happened when I had my first old car--a 1940 Chevy. Now there was a car you didn't throw any speed shifts in. With a vacuum shift, it was all you could do to move the shift lever in winter. In fact, I broke off about 4 inches of the lever one cold winter morning while trying to change gears.

This ol' car also was what I used the first winter I had it to turn an intentional 360 on ice and snow, with Mom sitting in the passenger seat. I was taking her to a grocery store in town at the time. When I completed the donut, I looked over at her and winked, to which she responded, "Don't you ever do that again with me in the car, Kenny boy!" but added a smile to let me know she kinda had enjoyed it. You see, Mom never had learned how to drive--just because of an accident she had with her dear brother's new sports roadster when they both were young. He kept urging her to get behind the wheel until she agreed to do it and then proceeded to hit the corner of the garage, taking off one fender. He laughed about it, but she cried and never would get behind the wheel of another car the rest of her life.

It was in this same old car that one particularly hot summer day found me using it to drive Pop, my brother and me to a creek bank to dig more worms--it never seemed like we had enough. Anyway, it was summer, so I parked under a tree and left the windows rolled down while we were in the woods. When we returned, the car's interior was filled with yellow jackets. The wind had blown a huge nest of 'em out of the tree over the car into the driver's side window, and they were everywhere. I just wanted to leave the car behind and walk back to town, but Pop insisted that I get behind the wheel and drive. "Just ignore 'em, and they'll leave you alone," he said. But how many people can do that when they're surrounded by the critters? We made it back home relatively unscathed, but by the next morning, yellow jackets "owned" my car. They coated every square inch of the interior. I ended up setting off a couple of bombs to kill them, then had to remove all their dead carcasses by hand--not exactly the way I, as a teenager, liked to get my kicks. However, I didn't have any other choices.

Pop never owned any fancy boats.
Instead, he always had something
like this wooden boat that he built
himself. It got him on the water, and
he also caught his share of fish.
All throughout his 88 years here
on earth, Pop usually had a dog for
a pet.

There also was the day, while the three of us were sitting on a river bank, that Pop accidentally snagged a treble hook in my knee as he was making a cast. My knee was exposed because I had worn shorts. He didn't realize I was as close as I was at the time--mainly because I had moved from where he had told me to stay. That time, though, he was more concerned about removing the fish hook than he was about scolding me for not listening to him. Part of that concern probably was motivated by the fact he knew he was destined for a scolding from Mom when he got us home. I still can hear her admonishing Pop on a number of occasions with words to this effect: "Leonard, if you don't learn to take better care of those boys, I'm going to stop letting you take them fishing or anywhere by yourself." Don't you know that I died a slow death a thousand times over every time I heard her say something like that. I loved going fishing with Pop more than anything else in the world, and the thought of ever having to give that up was too hard for me to imagine.

Admittedly, there were several times over the years that we three had some scary moments while out together on or near a body of water, but nothing bad enough ever happened to make me want to give up fishing. For instance, I remember the time when we had used a rope tied to the bumper of Pop's old pickup to scale a river bank and reach a good looking spot to wet a line. We didn't have any problem going down, but getting back up was a different story. Neither my brother nor I had the strength and/or know-how to pull ourselves back up. Pop finally went to the top by himself, carrying all the tackle, then simply had us grab hold of the rope and hang on while he backed up the truck.

The scariest moment of all for me, however, was one evening when Pop had taken us to a spot down below the hill where we lived. We hadn't been there very long when Pop suddenly picked up all our tackle, bent down and had my brother climb on his back, and then grabbed hold of my hand and slowly headed toward the pickup, with my feet barely touching the ground. Naturally, I couldn't help asking what he was doing, but all he said was, "Be quiet." He said it in such a tone that I knew something bad was wrong--I just didn't know what. When we reached the pickup, he explained that we had been sitting and standing among a whole nest of snakes. Pop always kept looking around whenever we were out fishing, just like I had seen him doing this time. I simply never had put 2 and 2 together until this incident.

Although I always was a bit nervous that
Mom (pictured here with me) might ruin my
boyhood fishing bond with Pop, she never
did. And during my high school years, she
became my confidant. To this very day,
more than six years since she passed, she
remains the one and only earthly angel I've
ever known.

And so, while Mom perhaps didn't always think Pop looked out for the welfare of my brother and me when the three of us were out together, he really did. It's just in a mother's blood to worry about her young 'uns. I still can hear her breathe a sigh of relief whenever I'd come in the house late from a date. She'd never say a word, but I knew she had been lying in bed awake, and I was oh so thankful that she cared so much.

When I graduated from high school and left home for active duty in the U.S. Navy (I had joined the Naval Reserve during my senior year and already had been to boot camp), my fishing bond with Pop came to a halt. Every time I went back home on leave, though, or he and Mom came my way to visit (Pop fixed up an old school bus and turned it into a touring vehicle for him and Mom), the two of us picked up where we had left off.

I particularly remember one year--1976, I think it was--when he and Mom came to visit my current wife and me in our home at the time in northern Virginia. I took Pop on several trips to Occoquan Reservoir, where we both caught some nice channel catfish in the 6-lb.-plus range. We just stumbled onto this one area of the reservoir where the catfish seemed to be stacked up like cord wood. Every trip we'd just anchor in the same spot and sit there hour after hour in our boat seats catching channel cats. Then we'd go home to eat dinner and have to skin the catfish in the dark. By the time we were done each night, we both were so tired we couldn't hold our eyes open, as you'll see in an accompanying photo.

Here's the proof I promised, showing that Pop and
I couldn't hold our eyes open after one of those
catfishing trips to the Occoquan Reservoir.

Although I wasn't around much of the time after starting my Navy career, Pop kept going fishing on a regular basis. He always had a fish story or two for me every time I called, and I kept receiving fishing-trip photos from him along with all the letters I got from him and Mom. Shortly after I decided to begin fishing with artificial lures, Pop moved up to 'em, too, even though, when I was a kid, he always swore he'd never try one. Because he was limited in what he could find around my small hometown of only 2,000 or so people, I frequently bought lures and mailed them to him. I once even sent him a whole, giant tacklebox full of every kind of lure you ever could imagine. It represented what I had cleaned out of all my boxes one spring. He still had some of those lures when he died eight years ago, so I inherited them back and have them yet today.

While Pop, my brother and I nearly always went after anything that swam back in those early days, I eventually became nearly a nothing-but-bass fisherman. Pop, on the other hand, came to enjoy both bass and walleye fishing. And, unfortunately, my brother ended up putting his fishing gear in the garage and pursuing other interests, primarily golf, the game his father-in-law taught him. Don't get me wrong--there's nothing wrong with chasing little white balls around golf courses. It's just not for me. I tried it once--during my senior trip to Florida--but didn't like it and thus never picked up a club ever again.

A couple different days' catches that Pop had
recorded on film and sent to me.

It's ironic that something Pop enjoyed as much as fishing should come to spell his demise, but that's indeed what happened. As he got older, his legs and feet, especially the circulation in them, began giving him problems, very possibly the result of carrying such heavy loads as those shingles up and down ladders when he was younger, and he wasn't very sure-footed. He had gone fishing with a friend of his one day, and while making his way around the water's edge, he slipped and fell, breaking his hip. He subsequently had hip-replacement surgery, which the doctor botched the first time with the wrong size of replacement, and he never was right after that, even though he finally received the right replacement. He spent considerable time in and out of hospitals in his last years--at one point being told he had so many things wrong the doctors didn't know where to start. It was then that he, for lack of a better way of putting it, simply gave up the will to fight. He was ready to meet his Maker, and he loudly proclaimed as much.

Two photos from what, if not the last, was one of
the last I ever had with Pop. Thank God He saw
fit to give us both a decent day's catch. I couldn't
have asked for anything more.

My brother and I let Mom and Dad live at home for as long as possible--even longer than a lot of their friends in my hometown felt we should. As I kept telling everyone, though, when the folks reached the point where, together, they couldn't function as a whole unit, we would move them into the local nursing home. That point came after Pop had made another one of his many hospital visits, and Mom's Alzheimer's was so bad she was imagining things and couldn't even dispense their medications properly any more. Please believe me when I say that the torture I experienced in that decision was only surpassed by the grief I felt as I watched each one then slip away from me--Pop first from congestive heart failure, and then Mom from the Alzheimer's.

At least my last visit to the nursing home to visit Pop was more like the ones I used to have with him at home in bygone days, except that he suddenly looked so much older and frail to me. I walked away from that last visit, watching him sit in a chair, reading his Bible, just as he did so often at home. He even had found the energy to play a couple of ol' religious tunes for me on his fiddle--and, yes, I do mean "fiddle," not violin. In Pop's own words, violins are what they play at concerts. Fiddles are what they play at dances, and Pop should know, because I grew up watching him play for western-swing dances a lot of years in the local VFW hall. He and his band played there and other places, too, nearly every Saturday night. His biggest gig occurred when he and his band were invited to play for a dance at the Cimarron Ballroom in Tulsa, OK.

Sitting in his and Mom's
bedroom at home, Pop plays
for a spell before church on
Sunday morning. This was a
constant in Pop's life for as
long as I had him here
with me.

That life all changed, however, when Pop became a Christian. I watched him walk into a church one Sunday morning as a sinner and leave there as a saved sinner. The transformation was as far as day is from night. Before that Sunday, he had cursed, smoked cirgarettes, drank liquor, and very rarely had darkened a church's doorsteps. He left there that day, proclaiming the word of God and never returned to any of those old habits. And to his dying day, he went to church every Sunday, to Bible study every Wednesday night, and to a host of other church-related events. He was dedicated to studying to show himself approved before God. For several years before he died, Pop served on the board of trustees and as a deacon at Oswego First Baptist Church. He also was a longtime Sunday School teacher and even was asked on a number of occasions to come and speak to some of the small rural churches in the area. And, last but certainly not least, he and his Over-the-Hill Gang were invited to play hymns at several churches in the area. They also played regularly at the local Senior Citizens Center.

On the other hand, my last visit to Mom in the nursing home was also memorable, but in the wrong kind of way. And even though I had plenty of warnings from the nursing-home staff before my arrival, it still was indescribably difficult for me to endure. There I sat holding Mom's hand and staring into eyes that, although once bright and cheery, now only showed an emptiness I can't begin to put into words. She didn't even look like the Mom I had known for so many years, nor could she utter even those three words I so longed to hear just one more time: I love you. I kept telling her that I loved her, but all I got in response were big tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. I felt sure she must be hearing me, but the Alzheimer's had silenced her completely, just as it did each and every one of her sisters before they died.

Mom, too, was a born-again Christian. As a matter of fact, we all four walked the aisle in church together that Sunday morning. Only I have strayed from the straight and narrow and let distractions color my views of too many things. I truly need to get back on track because I believe, as does any Christian, that none of us know how long we have here on earth. The only thing we have for sure is the very moment in which we're currently breathing. The next could be our last.

Like Pop, Mom was a longtime Sunday School and Vacation Bible School teacher at Oswego First Baptist Church, and she loved every moment of it. She, too, was in church services every Sunday and Bible study every Wednesday night. She also was active in Women's Missionary Union and a host of other church-related activities.

Ever since Mom and Dad have been gone, I've felt a deep void in my life, but the important thing is that I still have their memory to comfort me in my trials and tribulations. From Pop, I also inherited the gift of love for fishing, which lasts forever if you really get hooked like I am. From Mom, I got a heavy dose of caring. As was true of Pop at one time, I'm prone to fly off the handle, but I also usually stop and think about what I've just said or done and, thanks to Mom's gift, come back and try to make amends. I'm indeed grateful that I've never been too proud or bull-headed to tell someone "I'm sorry." I owe that to Mom and Dad, too. May God bless both of them in their Heavenly Home.

Epilog: Let me assure all who read this tribute to both of my parents that I shed many a tear while putting this on my blog--not one of which am I ashamed. I loved and still love both Mom and Dad dearly. I truly can't say one bad thing about either of them because, in my opinion, they always did right by me. If I can believe what I see and read in the news, there evidently are a lot of souls out there today who don't share that same feeling for their parents, and for them, I genuinely feel sorry.