Billville: Population Dad

I recently visited my father-in-law, Bill. At 83, he was showing his age. His decline from Parkinson’s had accelerated with dementia making words harder to find and thoughts tougher to follow.

Bill and Kaye (my mother-in-law) have been in their retirement home for 15 years. It’s a one-level home they designed so they can age in place while still hosting their growing family. A crucial part of the house plan was Bill’s basement workshop, Billville, centered around his 1950s workbench.

As usual, Bill and I spent time in Billville. We love to tinker on projects or just talk shop. I always marvel at how organized and practical Bill’s workshop is, a testament to his career as an engineer. As you enter, the storage area is in front of you. Here you’ll find boxes labeled: “Thanksgiving decorations for mantle;” “Kaye’s craft projects;” and my favorite, “Decorations no longer used.” To the right is the 1940s Coolerator refrigerator holding discount beers. Next to that relic is the chest freezer with 40-month-old chicken breasts and other unidentifiable ice blocks.  

Those areas may interest a Smithsonian curator or an archeological dig team, but they’re just an afterthought for me and Bill. We always turn left toward his workbench. Here you’ll find other fascinating artifacts, such as: Bill’s power tools; his overflowing tool pegboard; a jagged piece of paneling from his last house; a box of 10 lamp timers; a box of precisely stacked dead batteries; a battery tester; a homemade Christmas bulb tester; and a 1970s label maker, obviously used to label boxes of batteries, etc.

It was Wednesday night, hamburger night. They were served with chips and a vegetable. The 1970s Tupperware “pickle elevator” was set on the table along with some condiments. I enjoyed the pickles but had no desire to play condiment roulette. Those expiration dates can be way too small for octogenarians’ eyes. We caught up on family affairs and had a few belly laughs.

My visit ended. I got a big hug from Bill and Kaye as I headed to my car. After backing out, I noticed Bill waving from his doorway.

I gulped back the lump in my throat. I wanted Bill to keep Billville as long as possible. It’s his place of comfort in his ever-shrinking world. Billville is a true reflection of him: frugal, organized and methodical. It’s on that iconic workbench he helped make award-winning science projects, built and repaired countless pieces of furniture and appliances and wrestled with parts from his daughter’s 1968 VW Beetle. I can go on for hours.

Some believe the measure of a man is what he leaves behind, so they wrap themselves in their careers and build monuments to themselves. Bill didn’t buy that. He had a successful career, but he was never about his stuff or impressing others. To me, Billville is a symbol of something else he built and how he did it. That frail man in the doorway was the proud father of seven children, all of whom went to college on his dime. He was a man from humble beginnings and modest earnings who brown bagged it his entire career. Bill didn’t buy a new car until in his 70s, and he never blew money on status symbols. He was a dad who reared kids through the turbulent 60s and 70s and unconditionally welcomed every child’s spouse, along with the 16 grandchildren who followed. To this day, all seven children, five son/daughter-in-laws and 16 grandchildren (ages eight to 30) eagerly attend events at Grammy and Papa’s, most chatting and laughing until five in the morning.

So, the next time a senior gentleman is shuffling in front of you or doing 40 mph in the left lane, give him a break. That guy wearing polyester pants and suspenders may have sacrificed over 60 years to build a loving family, a legacy that will last for generations. I’d call that one hell of a monument.

Post Script…

I wrote this ode in 2012; we lost dad in 2013. We miss him dearly, but I know he’d be pleased his workbench is the center of my busy basement workshop.

Happy Father’s Day to Bill and my first dad I never got to know. And Happy Father’s Day to every other dad out there.

This article first appeared in The Frederick News Post