Big John

Thirty-five years ago this Valentine’s Day my heart was broken. It has never completely healed.

On that day in 1976 my father died.

A few years ago I wrote a long-overdue tribute to the man whose earthly life ended way too soon. Here’s what I had to say:

John Leland Leer was a man’s man. At 6’2” and 220 pounds, he was an intimidating figure, especially to a skinny kid like me.

Dad celebrates my sister Pam's birthday, 1964

A toolmaker at Delco Remy in Anderson, Ind., a then-components division of General Motors Corp., my dad embodied all the qualities I associated with manhood: strength, toughness, grit and competitiveness. He could tear an engine apart and put it back together. He played catcher in fast-pitch softball. He made decisions and stuck to them. When he thought he was right there was no convincing him otherwise.

I held dad both in awe and fear. I’m not sure I could have felt much more awe and fear if God himself had appeared before me.

Dad’s tough exterior and temper was likely the result of his being born the youngest of five children. Throughout his life he fought to be heard and to gain the respect that so often seemed to elude him. His frustration often boiled over at home, and when it did, I wanted to find a place to hide. Dad could send chills up my spine by simply barking my name.

I watched this hulking figure of a man for 16 years. I saw him get up at the crack of dawn to go off to work at the factory. He rarely missed a day. Even when he was sick and probably too ill to be working, he grabbed his lunch and headed out the door.

Dad taught me the meaning of work ethic.

I saw him crouched behind home plate in softball games, with his way-too-thin catcher’s mitt and no chest protector, snagging 70 mph pitches that were curving, dipping and rising. Halley’s comet streaked across the sky more often than a pitch got away from dad. I remember occasions where there was a close play at the plate and the opposing baserunner thought they could take out dad and score. They didn’t. Batting, dad had a knack for spraying the ball all over the field. Had he tried the Babe Ruth stunt of pointing to where he was going to hit the ball, dad could have pulled it off.

Dad taught me the meaning of competitiveness.

I witnessed my dad’s love for my mother. He doted on his Texas bride and showered her with affection in the presence of me and my sisters. Although dad and mom sometimes had disagreements and he would get loud, they never failed to make up. Dad was faithful to my mom from the moment they began going together when he served in the military until the day he was no longer with us.

Dad taught me the meaning of love.

I saw dad stand firmly behind his beliefs. A political junkie, dad was a George Wallace conservative when George Wallace was still a conservative. Dad had no use for big government, welfare programs, liberal ideas, schmoozing with communists and any political candidate or leader who believed in those things. Family reunions were always interesting, because, inevitably, the topic of politics came up. And when it did, there was dad on his bully pulpit, preaching the gospel of Barry Goldwater. He never backed down from a political debate. In the same way, but in a quieter, less confrontational manner, dad shared his belief in God and the Bible. With dad, there was no question where he stood on any issue, be it the direction Congress was taking the country or what he thought about modern translations of the Good Book.

Dad taught me the meaning of convictions.

In the fall of 1975 dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the disease was too far advanced to be successfully treated. That didn’t stop dad from trying. He read books about natural cancer cures, and began a regimen of carrot juice and vitamin B-17. He also went through conventional chemotherapy treatments.

For four months, as his weight dropped almost in half and he lay writhing in pain on a couch in our living room, I watched dad battle the ultimate enemy. He approached the fight just like every other he’d encountered in his life: Do it my way, or else.

I believed dad would win. He always won in the end.

Dad died on Valentine’s Day 1976, at age 41. I was stunned. True grief came much later. In so many ways, the grieving process continues for me to this day.

At the close of his life, dad left me with perhaps his most important lesson. He taught me the meaning of courage.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of dad. He was gruff, sometimes moody and could be difficult to live with at times, sure, but he was a great man. I owe him so much.

Thank you, dad. Your brief life has left an indelible mark on mine.