My Father's Poetry

Elmo John Riddle, my father, was born on November 19, 1920.  He was the sixth child of nine children born to John Wesley and Jean Ella Riddle.  Unfortunately, I do not know much about what he did as a boy growing up on a farm, but I imagine that he and his siblings worked the fields because his father was a poor dirt farmer working on someone else's land.  I am sure Elmo grew up in difficult times because of the depression.  They boys were good hunters and handy with guns and probably brought home game to eat, they raised chickens, maybe a cow or two, and hogs, as most everyone did in those days in order to feed a family of 11.

He probably met my mother, Opal Nadine Martin, when he had an opportunity to attend school.  None of his siblings graduated from high school back then but were fortunate to attend grade school often enough to receive at least a 4th or 5th grade education in order to read and write.

Me at 20 months.

Elmo was a very handsome man whom I thought even handsomer than the William Holden or Clark Gable pictures ion my scrapbooks.  He had the blackest hair and the bluest eyes and to me he was just about the handsomest man I had ever seen.  He even had a gold tooth right in front when he was very young.  He was kind and soft-spoken and respected his parents.  I truly believe that was the reason he would not ask my Grandmother to return his daughter to him to raise with the rest of his children.  He had too much respect for his parents, as children were taught in those days.  My Stepmother may have pleaded with him a time or two to ask my Grandmother to allow them to raise me along with my sister and by that time a little brother, Eddie.  My sister said they would ask him from time-to-time why their big sister couldn't live with them, but he would simply say, her Grandmother was "too attached".  After all, she had raised me from infancy so the bond was obviously very strong by the time I was two or three.  I've wonder now why my Grandmother would want another child to raise after raising nine children.  I believe one of the reasons was that she didn't have an opportunity to enjoy her children because times were so hard back on the farm.  Perhaps a baby girl gave her something to look forward to as she was approaching her mid-50's by the time I came along, and by now they had moved to town, and Grandpa had a job with the county grading roads.

At the age of only 41, my Father was diagnosed with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) often referred to as "Lou Gehrig's Disease," a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord.   He was then working as a roofer in Kansas.  They returned to Arkansas with their now three boys later that year.  Kathy married Ron Lamb in 1963 and moved to Arkansas after the birth of their son in 1964, but returned to Kansas due to a job offer in Great Bend in 1966.  My Father's health began to greatly deteriorate from the disease, and he passed away on September 16, 1967, at the age of 47.  I was able to spend time with him during the last two years as he struggled with ALS.  He had an insightful talent for poetry but was unable to write because he had lost use of both arms.  He would dictate to me many lovely poems he had made up in his head, and I would return home and type them on a typewriter.  I wish I had known about some of his other talents, as well as his likes and dislikes, but by then it was too late to learn of those things.  I furnished copies of his poetry for his siblings and children, and some were read at his funeral service in Greenwood, Arkansas. 

I want my siblings to understand that I write these thoughts because he was my Father, and it was not your fault nor his that I didn't know him as well as I should.  I only saw him maybe twice a year, but I think I was happier to see my siblings because not only was I special to them, they were special to me because I was their "big sis" and they looked up to me.  I don't know why I didn't get to spend every summer with them, but most of the time they lived in Kansas, and my Grandmother would never have allowed me to travel with them out of state.  You see, she was one unyielding and tough little woman.  My brother, Eddie, referred to her as a "stern" grandma.  That just about says it all about her--more about her in some of my future posts. 

One summer I spent an entire week with them in Arkansas which was probably one of the most memorable times in my life, and I'll write more about that week later on too.

As I write these thoughts about you, Dad, I wish I could have known you better.  I wish I could have spent Christmases with all of you; hunted Easter eggs; played hide-and-go-seek after dark; caught lightening bugs; and be tucked in beside Kathy at night.  I wish I could have hugged you good night and told you I loved you and see you smile.  I want to thank you for the inspirational poetry you wrote in your last days.  I am thankful I was there to hear them first-hand and to record them for you.  I love you, Dad.

Joyce at  9 months 1942