My Father

He certainly did not have much of a formal education but my father was considered by many people as a pretty smart guy.

As a young, foreign-born man, who worked in mine rescue after coming to the states, Milan Elmer Shuper certainly valued education and made it clear to his two sons that it was the one thing which could never be taken away from a person.

Although he was not one to brag, it was evident in later years that he was pretty proud that both boys earned college degrees: one earned a mechanical engineering degree and the other a journalism degree. "Mike" Shuper worked hard, never made a million bucks, supported his family as best he could, and was admired by most all who came to know him.

He didn't preach to me that I had to go to college, but I'll never forget his admonition that if I did seek a higher education it would be for my benefit not his. Common sense, you see pholks, was among my father's strongest attributes.

He was not an outwardly affectionate man, but there was never a doubt in my mind that my father loved his family.

With this prefix, I would like to share a favorite story, one which I've told many times, especially in later years. It involves a lesson I learned the hard way. Some might call it tough love.

In short pholks, this is what happened:

As a junior college student who seldom drank more than a beer, I ended up drunk at a college dance, thanks to my own stupidity and lack of common sense. Four country boys driving 35 miles to a big annual college dance (mixed with hard liquor and a bottle of 7-Up ) seemed like a good Friday night adventure.

However, I was later found by the campus cops sick in the boy's room and the city cops were called. My buddies weren't able to get me in good enough shape to be taken home—35 miles away. I went to jail: the drunk tank, of course. I was booked by proxy due to my severe condition. Pretty close, I was later told, to going to the hospital.

The next morning I awakened, covered in vomit, and experienced my first-ever hangover. My father was there to get me, and he was rather calm, as I recall. He had driven my 1953 Chevy (2-door Belair hardtop) into town to pick up his youngest son from the drunk tank. Covered in barf and looking very close to warmed over death, I didn't have much to say. But when my dad said we were going to a large discount store to buy new tires for my car, I suggested that it could wait until the next week. I would drive back into Modesto and take care of that matter.

Dad made it clear that wasn't going to happen. We were going to buy the tires that morning. And we did. We did not drive around the back of the big store where the automotive bays were located.

No sir. My father marched me through the front of the store all the way to the back. At his side was his disgusting looking, vomit-stained, red-eyed and rotten smelling 20-year-old son. Fresh (not really) out of the drunk tank.

I don't remember seeing anyone looking at us 'cause my eyes were focused on counting the floor tiles or whatever. I didn't see anything but floor.

We got the tires, a set of four even though I really only needed two. My common sense father figured I would need a couple more tires in a few months. My dad paid the whole bill. Pholks, I took a lot of classes in high school and college, but never did I learn a better lesson. I tell that story with pride, not for my “when I was a young buck” image, but for my father's actions. He loved me. He didn't scream and shout or threaten any other action. He made his point his way. I was shamed and rightfully so. The pain wasn't physical but the impression of my father's action has lasted a lifetime.

Father's Day is more special for some pholks than others, but I chose to think of the lessons of life and the value of common sense I learned from my father and mother.

Miles can be reached at mshuper@valleyvoicenewspaper.com