My mother and father were discussing how to divide their possessions among their children and asked me if there was anything specific I wanted. Somehow the unsettling talk of heirs and assets led me to think of these wonderful but perishable tales. I confess to asking my father to write down some of the colorful stories of his childhood. However, all credit for their arrival in print is due to the perseverance of my father. I merely pointed out that there was a tree in his yard which, with only a bit of water and judicious pruning, could produce wonderful fruit.
My father’s tales of growing up in Pittsburgh are a remarkably clear and detailed series of vignettes tinged with the humor and sadness of a resilient young man in a difficult time. They make no claim on history other than having been a small part of it. To my generation, they serve not only as a window into a former era, but as a reminder of the great debt we owe to his generation for the peace and prosperity we enjoy today. While enduring the suffering of the Great Depression and sacrifices of World War II the men and women of his generation maintained an optimism and faith in their country and in their children.
Here is the fruit of that tree, his tree. It is a generous father’s gift and a parable of childhood that encourages us to look for answers to our prayers not in what we wish but in what we become.
Jeffrey Gibbons
April 20, 2000
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