Dad by Ricki T Thues

 Dad

Ricki T Thues - 2025

Bob was always in charge of who he was. He was born Carol Jewett. When he was ten years old, he walked into his parents’ living room and announced, “I’m Bobby!” His parents replied, “OK, Bobby. That’s a very nice name.” And so he was Robert Jewett.

There is a picture taken in San Francisco of Bob and two friends dressed in white T-shirts, chinos, and leather jackets. Bob had chino clips on his pants, having just ridden his bicycle. He was not wearing his leather jacket, so you could see the pack of Lucky Strikes rolled up in his tee shirt sleeve. They looked like a page torn out of the movie “Rebel without a Cause.” Bob admired and emulated James Dean so much that he took the name Dean as his middle name.

When Bob’s father, Alfred Jewett, died, his mother remarried Hans Thues. Bob’s full name was now Robert Dean Thues. He never officially changed his name, but entered it on all official documents from the Marines to his marriage certificate to his driver’s license. It was who he was.

Bob volunteered in the Marines and became a sergeant. He led a platoon in the Korean War. He was a hero, a leader, and the essence of a Marine. Discipline was drilled into him, and he drilled it into his Boots at Camp Pendleton when he returned to the mainland. His character was sculpted by his Marine Corps experience.

Discharged from the military, Bob became a skilled union sheetmetal craftsman. When asked why he chose working with metal instead of wood, he would say, “Wood is already beautiful and functional as a tree. I take the product of iron ore and shape it into useful, functional, and beautiful objects.”

A veteran, lifelong union member, Democrat, and loving husband, Bob was an example of what a man could be. Shortly after leaving the military, Bob found his sweetheart. Deola was smart, pretty, and a flag swinger in the local high school. Not long after Dee’s graduation, she married Bob.

Bob was utterly devoted to Dee. They did everything together. They embraced their love of boating, water skiing, and travel during every vacation opportunity. They bought a boat and shared Colorado River vacations with their good friends Jack and Susan. Bob did not succumb to the tempting competition with Jack for bigger boats and more powerful engines. His 40-horse Curt Craft was perfect for his family. Years later, Bob built a fire pit. When asked why a fire pit and not a big, premium BBQ, he said, “This pit is simpler, more versatile, and economical. I don’t have to compete with neighbor Joe. This firepit is perfect for my needs.” Primitive simplicity was Bob’s preferred form of expression.

A year after Bob and Dee were married, I was born. My parents loved me, nurtured me, and encouraged me to be whomever I wanted. Bob was my teacher and disciplinarian. My mother was my cheerleader. She bandaged my injuries, physical and mental. She pushed me to excel in school, and when I stumbled, she picked me up. 

My father took me to Jewish, Mormon, and Protestant services, saying, “Choice of religion is your choice.” Mother supported all my decisions about faith. My sister started to go to catechism classes with her friend. Curious, I decided to go with her. When catechism classes ended with First Communion, I realized that I had never been to Mass. My parents took me to my first Mass, even though they had no religion themselves. The sermon at that requiem for John Kennedy was ‘love your neighbor.’ It was a life-changing message. Mom and Dad shepherded me through baptism, First Communion, and Confirmation, setting me up for Servite College Prep High School and Notre Dame University.

Dad taught my mother everything he knew about cooking from his Marine Corps experience. Subsequently, my mother was the worst cook I have ever met. The unbreakable rule of family meals was that the plate was cleaned, or you were not dismissed from the table. Did I say that my mother was a terrible cook? There was food that would give me a gag reflex. Some examples were shit on a shingle, greasy “gut bomb” breakfast sandwiches, slop bucket mish mash casserole made of leftovers, pound cake that weighed a pound, and runny eggs. I used to drown the runny eggs in catsup to choke them down. To this day, I don’t like catsup very much. I am a very finicky eater, but my father’s “clean your plate” rule programmed me to try everything at least once before excluding it from my diet.

Discipline was harsh. Lying, anger, or shirking duties were punished with my father’s belt. I learned to be honest, calm, and dedicated, but my rear end hurt more days than I care to remember. It did not surprise me that at my Catholic high school, paddles were used for corporal punishment. But my father’s belt had trained me to follow rules and avoid my teacher’s discipline.

Above all, my father was my teacher. When I was first learning to swim, I wore an inflatable ring we called Froggy. Floating on the edge of the pool with Froggy around my waist, my father would push me toward open water, encouraging me to kick my legs and paddle my arms. One day, as Bob pushed me, he held onto Froggy. I did not notice Froggy slipping off and swam across the pool on my own. My other friends were thrown into the pool by their fathers. Mine taught me how to swim.

I was too small to learn to waterski behind a boat. So my father rigged up a short ski rope and pulled me up along the river edge. He ran along the shore to keep me skiing on water.

I was short as a child and not very athletic. Dad bought me a 28-inch baseball bat, just the right size for my height. He lobbed me easy underhanded pitches. My wobbly swing missed every pitch. After several attempts, my father repositioned my hands in a firm, choked-up grip. I connected the next pitch with a resounding CRACK! The ball flew across the street and into the neighbor’s window. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then my father said, “We have to go over and tell the neighbor what happened.” I was terrified of the consequences but nodded and followed Dad across the street. Mr. Quincy met us in the driveway, clearly angry. My father looked at me and winked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Quincy. I broke your window,” I said.

Before Mr. Quincy could speak, my father said, “It’s my fault, Joe. I taught Ricki how to hit the ball that hard. I will pay for the window repair, of course. I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

Bob and Joe shook hands. I was proud of doing the right thing.

Time and again, I remember the morals, ethics, and fairness that my father taught me. Always with example and seldom with words.

Except for that one time…

The walls of tension were closing in at my parents’ house.  I was still living at home after college. My father was a male parent hawk, nudging me off the edge of the nest so I would fly. My mother was increasingly tired of mothering. One day, Mother and I were having a nasty spat.  She yelled at me about something, so I stormed out of the house, slamming the door and flipping off my mother. My father saw this. He walked right up to me and said, “That is no way to treat your mother.” I opened my mouth, which he slapped shut. “You will find someplace else to live immediately. Do not come back here. I disown you.”

In Bob’s mind, when it came to loyalty, I had a place—but I never matched what he felt for his wife. There was no force that could tip that scale away from his sweetheart, lover, wife, and mate. Not even his son.

I did as Father said. I moved out and began the adventure of my lifetime. I tried over and over again to make amends, but there was no overcoming the gulf that was now between us. Bob’s love and protection of his wife trumped any approach I could make toward him.

Our skism never did resolve. Our estrangement was oddly another life lesson that Dad had taught me. Sadly, my father never showed me absolution, and I never learned that certain kind of forgiveness.

In spite of that, I think of him often. I love what I learned from my father. It molded the character I have cultivated for a lifetime. Dad made me the man I am today, a little lonelier, but strong and independent.