CHAPTER XL

FATHER TOOK ME SERIOUSLY

There was an interval of nearly five months between the time of my

election, which was in May, and the date of taking office in September.

I decided to use this time to improve my qualifications for the job. I

returned to the old home town of Sharon and took a course in a business

college. Again I walked the old familiar paths where as a boy I had

roamed the woods, fished the streams, brought the cows along the dusty

road from pasture and blacked the boots of the traveling dudes at the

hotel.

There is a great thrill for the young man who comes home with a heart

beating high with triumph, to see the love and admiration in his

parents' eyes. Father shook my hand and said. “You're a good boy, Jimmy,

and I'm proud of you. I always knew you'd make your mark.”

“I haven't made much of a mark, dad,” I laughed. “City clerk isn't much.

County recorder is what I'm aiming for.” In fact, I had gone so far as

to dream of being auditor of the state of Indiana.

A jolly old uncle who was there and who was looked on as the sage and

wit of the Welsh settlement, began kidding me.

“From city clerk to county recorder is only a step, Jimmy,” he said.

“Next you'll be governor, and then president.”

Father took it seriously.

“You'll never be president, lad,” he said, “because you wasn't born in

this country.” He seemed to think that was the only reason. He turned

to my uncle and explained regretfully: “Of all my boys, only one has

got the full American birthright. My youngest boy, Will, is the only one

that can be president.”

“Well,” said the jolly old uncle, “the rest of 'em can be government

officers.”

Even this joke father took as a sober possibility. I saw then the full

reason why he came to America. He wanted to give his boys boundless

opportunities. A humble man himself, he had made all his sacrifices to

broaden the chances for his children. This was a lesson to me. I could

not repay him. I could only resolve to follow his example, to stand for

a square deal for children everywhere.

Mother was as pleased with my humble success as was father. When I sat

down to the table she apologized for her cooking and said:

“After the fine food you have been eating in the big hotels, you will

find our table pretty common.”

“You're wrong, mother,” I said. “The best food I ever had I got right

here at your table. You've never lived in boarding-houses, but father

has. He knows that it's a rough life, and they don't feed you on

delicacies. Hotel cookery is not like the cookery in the Old World. Over

there they make each dish as tasty as they can, and good eating is

one of the main objects in life. But Americans don't like to eat. They

begrudge the time they have to spend at the table. They get it over

as soon as they can. They seem to take it like medicine; the worse the

medicine tastes, the better it is for them. An egg is something that is

pretty hard to spoil in the cooking. Yet some of these boarding-house

cooks are such masters of the art that they can fix up a plate of steak,

eggs and potatoes and make them all as tasteless as a chip of wood. I've

had this kind of fare for the last few years, and getting back to your

table is the best part of home-coming.”

Father was still a puddler, and to show my appreciation of all he had

done for me, I went into the mill every afternoon that summer and worked

a heat or two for him while he went home and rested in the shade.

The workout did me good. It kept my body vigorous and cleared my brain

so that my studies were easy for me, and I advanced with my education

faster than ever before.

This proved to me that schooling should combine the book stuff with the

shop work. Instead of interfering with each other, they help each other.

The hand work makes the books seem more enjoyable.