Dear Dad — today marks the 112th year since your birth: December 21, 1912. The arts celebrated a few significant moments that month. There was, for example, the release of the first-ever full-color film.
The first full-color film, The Miracle, premiered at the Royal Opera House in London. Produced by Joseph Menchen and directed by Michel-Antoine Carré, each film panel was hand-painted to achieve the full-color effect. The film became a major hit and was showcased around Europe in 1913. Wikipedia
The very next day, December 22, would witness the birth of The American Federation of Actors, which would incorporate as the Actors’ Equity Association in 1913.
John Lennon’s dad, Alfred, was born in Liverpool on the 14th — which reminds me that you never were a fan of John or his moptop compatriots: “They look like a bunch of d___ed women,” you said, when they flickered to black-and-white life on our old Admiral TV. I think Ed Sullivan fell a notch or two for you that night in early 1964.
December, 1912 — all in all, a good month in a year marked by the tragedy of the sinking of the Titanic, back on April 14.
Events domestic and international marked the year, but, for my sister and me, none compared to your birth, Max Wilton Grant, in Saint Jo, Texas.
You grew up in a modest home with a father who “gave away the store” during the Great Depression when you were a teenager because he couldn’t stand to see folks go hungry. Your mom, Olive, came from old Saint Jo money — the Bellah clan — but she loved your dad more than money and they made a good life for you and your younger brothers, Deb and Luke.
You were a left-brained kind of guy — always good with numbers, a bit taciturn, but like your dad, you made a place for those less fortunate. You became a petroleum engineer and worked the oil fields in Colorado and Wyoming during the 1940’s.
You married Evie Brown Reagan in 1949 and took her to Casper, Wyoming, and Rangely, Colorado. A year or two later she suffered a miscarriage — there may have been more than one. We were never sure, and you and Mom never mentioned it. I only discovered it many years after you and Mom had passed in some letters you wrote to Grandpa and Grandma.
Heaven knows, you were unprepared to have an artist for a son. Still, you made room for me. And every so often, when you were reading to us before bed, or singing On the Wings of a Snow White Dove in the shower, or yelling from the bleachers for me on Friday nights, I would catch a glimpse of passion and the soul of an artist in you. You would never have crossed the line to admit that you were an artist of any kind, but I think, down deep, you wanted to. And I wish you had,
Pinapple upside down cake was your favorite, and Mom would bake it for you every December 21. It was the only time of year she would make it — because it was just that special, and you were just that special to her. Goodness, how she loved you.
So, thanks, Dad. For showing me how to love my wife, by loving Mom. For being there for me every single day of my life. For never missing one of my baseball, football, basketball games, or track meets, or literary events (so many plays, poetry/prose readings, etc.). For praying before every single meal we ever ate.
You left us way too early: on a foggy morning, May 30, 1972. You weren’t even 60. Strange to say, your own father passed away at 59 as well. I passed that marker a while back. It’s so weird to pass that date every year. I miss you, and wish we’d had more time together. I met Lauren only three months after you died. You would have loved her — and your grands! Oh, my!
I took my time with you for granted then. I treasure those memories now and try to make the time I spend with my own three, and my grands, and my sweetheart count.
I love you, Dad. Happy 112th!
Reg
