Better late than never.
Like probably every son who ever lived, Blaska wishes he had told his old man that he didn’t do such a bad job after all (although some may differ). We knew he was on his way out but he never complained except to say, “Nothing seems to be working right.”
My Lovely Lisa asked Jerome how he felt about The End. That is a question no Blaska would ever ask another — too much like feelings. (Shudder!) His answer: “I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.” That was an answer of a different generation born of the Great Depression, a world war, and working the soil.
Our aunt Evelyn, dad’s oldest sister, wrote a self-published memoir called “Deal the Cards.” That’s what her mother, my Grandma Rose, well into her 90s, eventually said after being informed that another of her sons was terminally ill. She was playing euchre — or was it sheepshead? You deal with the cards you’ve been dealt.
Jerome served in World War 2 — in Alaska, probably in support; the Japanese had invaded the Aleutian Islands. Somewhere in his material stored in the Stately Manor is a manual about operating a field gun and an English to Japanese phrase book in case he was captured. (“I am thirsty.”) He wore a beer bottle opener with his dog tags.
Just about all he said about the war was that the camp loudspeaker would order Corporal Blaska to report to headquarters. “Now what have I done?” he’d protest, sheepishly. But the brass needed a fourth for euchre — or was it sheepshead?
Tommy Thompson, in the governor’s office, once raved about the hand Jerome played.
Tales from the attic
He did once tell his oldest son, just a little shaver (as Grandma called the boys), that a fellow soldier was crying that he couldn’t take it anymore. Dad said he offered to shoot the soldier if that would relieve his anxiety. He told that story up in the unheated, third-floor attic of our foursquare home on the farm. Don’t think I ever went up there on my own, for some reason. His Army uniforms hung up there. Blue ribbons strung along a beam attested to his prowess in growing barley, which Grandpa J.M. sold to Pabst Brewing. Might still be there today, for all I know.
If he bragged it was that before the war he had been the youngest field man for the Oconomowoc Canning Co. That’s the guy who says it’s time to harvest the peas and sweet corn.
There are easier ways making a living than farming. Asked him once on a cold morning outside the barn why he turned down a city job lobbying for the truckers (I think it was) after his eight years in the state Assembly. (He had chaired the highway committee.) Had to be his own boss, he answered.
Was proud that brother Mike and I served as Dane County supervisors. Left a voice message on my phone at the WI Department of Workforce Development saying his eldest looked sharp and spoke well at the meeting the night before. Tried to save that voice message through multiple vendors but it’s lost except in memory. Father did not hand out participation trophies.
He did impart one piece of advice that sticks with me to this day:
“You’ve always got to be thinking.” — Jerome Blaska
Never went along to get along
“Nobody tells me what to think,” he said. Lifelong Democrat, supported Reagan. Was proud to have been born on the Fourth of July — remarkably, along with two of his sisters. Independence Day was always celebrated with a family reunion on Uncle Cy’s farm.
This blogguer is almost as old as Jerome (we called him by his first name) when he signed off on May 1, 2000 (officially recorded as May 2). That would have been the time to say “Thank you.”
Don’t mean to ignore mother, who produced the first three of us in less than two years. And took a seasonal job at Wisconsin Cheeseman so her six kids could see something under the Christmas tree.
Blaska’s Bottom Line: Anyway, the Head Groundskeeper thought he should write something suitable to Memorial Day. After all, mothers and fathers gave their lives …
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