MY FATHER'S GLORY

In Honor Of My Father: A Memoir I Wrote Eleven Months Before His Death.

My father holding my sister Jana while standing in a Pennsylvania lake, circa 1960.

My father is a good man. A work horse. A man of strong convictions and Christian faith. A giver at heart. Kind to his core and not prone to excess. A gentle soul, except on the rare occasions when his ire is ignited. Mostly given to silence and solitude, ask him for a tour of his fifteen acres he has proudly cultivated into a nature park, or get him started on hunting, mechanics, or God, and he’s full of zeal and passion.

“My father is a good man. A work horse. A man of strong convictions and Christian faith. Kind to his core and not prone to excess. A gentle soul, except on the rare occasions when his ire is ignited. ”

Born on September 21, 1935 (although my birth certificate states his birthday as September 22), my father was born into a farm family in south central Pennsylvania, nestled in the southern foot hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His family lineage is French/German, with a history traced back to the French Huguenots. Bashore, and all its variations: Basehore, Beshore, Bayshore, Bahore, Baeshore, Bashor, apparently comes from the French "La Basseur" which some say means “kettle” or “cowlick.” Years ago a friend who speaks seven languages told me that Bashore sounds like the Spanish word for “sewage." Most recently, another friend told me Bashore means “One who kisses.” I'll take that one. But not how you think. I want to be one who "kisses" people with goodness and inspiration in soul and spirit. After the Reformation, the Catholics launched the Counter-Reformation through the Jesuits, which, unfortunately, resulted in the killing of many Reformers and the Reformed. The French Huguenots were part of the Reformation and 7,000 of their brethren were slain by Jesuits at a single wedding feast. My father didn't know his family history, but the fear and resentment towards the Catholic’s were passed down through the generations. After learning the history, I felt compelled, on behalf of my family blood line, to forgive the Catholics who murdered my ancestors, to break the curse and to extend mercy to those who did evil against us so many years ago.

“ I felt compelled to forgive the Catholics who murdered my ancestors, on behalf of my family, to break the curse and to extend mercy to those who did evil against us so many years ago.”

During the counter Reformation, our ancestors, three French brothers, escaped on a ship to Canada where they were hired as loggers. As fate would have it, two of the brothers slipped off the logs while on the treacherous St. Lawrence, and were crushed and drowned. One brother remained. He somehow made his way to the United States into Pennsylvania, Bethel Township. Once there, unable to speak English, he was hired by a farmer as a bond slave for seven years. After his contract was up, the farmer neglected to tell him he was free -- and he worked another seven years before understanding his err. So he ran off with the farmer’s daughter. They rowed their way down the Swatara Creek, all the way past Hershey and Middletown to the Susquehanna River, eventually settling in that region. Where they emerged at the mouth of the river is a stretch of rock and earth called Bayshore Island. As my father grew, he became a hard worker on his father’s farm. And he was full of energy and life. With a strong, limber body, he learned to do headstands and tricks on the backs of horses. Standing at 5′ 4″, his father discounted or protected him because of his size. But my father was athletic and fast. He was known to slide right under the legs of the opposing football team and race down the field with the ball. The coach visited my grandfather and requested permission for my father to play official sports for the school, but my grandfather refused, telling the coach that my father's place was on the farm. I think my grandfather even accused my father of asking the coach to approach him. My father was doubly devastated.

“With a strong, limber body, he learned to do headstands and tricks on the backs of horses. Standing at 5′ 4″, his father discounted or protected him because of his size. But my father was athletic and fast. He was known to slide right under the legs of the opposing football team and race down the field with the ball.”

During those years, my grandfather's brother died suddenly, and his three sons came to live on the farm. With two brothers and a sister of his own, my father instantly gained three more "brothers." These brother/cousins were tall and subsequently favored by my grandfather over my father on farm chores and responsibilities. Or maybe my grandfather was trying to protect my father. Either way, this was another wound in my father’s strong, gregarious spirit. This wound was only deepened by another defining situation. A traveling Pentecostal preacher came through town and my grandfather attended the religious tent meeting. My grandparents were members of a very conservative Protestant denomination called The Church of the Brethren, a sister to the Mennonites and Amish. The women wore head coverings and they congregation engaged in ceremonies like foot washings and Love Feasts for communion services. My grandfather was an Elder in the church. This denomination stood strongly against the theology of the Pentecostal movement, which believed in manifestations of the Holy Spirit, such as speaking in tongues. My father's church was forbidden to attend any such tent meetings hosted by the Pentecostal preacher, but he secretly disobeyed their order and attended the meeting as a "spy." But something powerful happened there that would alter the rest of his life.

My grandfather was filled with the Holy Spirit.

It was a powerful experience that he couldn't stay quiet about. Powerful enough to tell my grandmother and the church about his encounter with “The Holy Ghost” and “Jesus.” The Brethren Elders did not approve of this “spiritual excess,” and after taking measures to “correct” my grandfather, he refused to recant his experience, so they excommunicated him. All of his relatives attended the Brethren church. As well as my grandmother's relatives. So she was used as a wedge as an attempt to break my grandfather’s will. Unfortunately, my grandmother broke, instead. She ended up in a mental health facility, many times, resulting from depression due to being torn from her family and her church community. With a family history bathed in the blood of religious persecution between the Catholics and Protestants, my father and his family now had to endure persecution between two Protestant denominations. And it deeply affected my father.

“With a family history bathed in the blood of religious persecution between the Catholics and Protestants, my father and his family now had to endure persecution between two Protestant denominations.”

My grandmother’s ancestry is Pennsylvania Dutch. Her family owned a delicatessen and farms. The delicatessen was within 300 yards of the young woman my father would eventally marry: Loretta Faye Hartman. My mother came from a family of eight children (the ninth child died at an early age causing my mother a deep sense of loss her entire life), with a father who was a trucker and a mother who worked at the Hershey Chocolate factory wrapping Hershey Kisses. One day my father’s cousins, the Bucher boys, shot a pheasant that fell onto the Hartman property. The Bucher boys asked the Hartman boys for the dead pheasant, but they refused to give it to them. Thus began a family feud between the Hartman Clan and the Bashore/Bucher Clan. My mother and father were the Romeo and Juliet of their town. Against all odds, they married, settled on a Bucher farm for the first four years, and then moved into an old home in 1965, remodeling it over the decades, residing in it until this day. No matter how tired and hungry my father was, when he sat at the dinner table he always made sure my sisters, brother, and I always had enough to eat before taking any food for himself. He always asked us to take more food, accepting smaller portions for himself. This left a strong impression on my young mind. The thing that surprises me even now is that I was so self-centered: I never once held back so that my father could have more to eat.

His sacrifice is the model of what it means to be a man.

My father taught me how to plant a garden. His influence was powerful and ignited a passion in me for horticulture. He showed me how to plow the earth, fertilize it with manure, plant seeds at the right depth in season, water and care for the plants, rid the garden of weeds, spray for disease and insects, prune shrubs and trees, and harvest the bounty. By ninth grade, I had already planted a 3,000 square foot garden, small orchard, and starter vineyard. By the time I was a senior in High School, I added 50 rose bushes, giant Dahlias, and a host of various trees, shrubs, flowers, vegetables, and fruit trees.

“My father taught me how to plant a garden. His influence was powerful and ignited a passion in me for horticulture.”

My father’s faith in God influenced me greatly. He and my mother took our family to the Church of the Brethren until I was twelve. My father also took us to Pentecostal meetings on Friday nights. Traveling between Brethren ritual/stoicism to Pentecostal high drama/emotionalism and Holy Spirit focus, then later to an Evangelical denomination, gave us spiritual whiplash. But it also kept us from falling prey to denominationalism and prejudice. I’m grateful to my father for giving me a broader spiritual experience as a boy. This led to my being able to enter into different expressions of faith, without feeling intimidated, fearful or prejudice. Since 1994, my father has battled heart failure, Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, and various other health issues, but he has always fought back, and is still working as hard as ever. At 76, he’s caring for fifteen acres of woods, along with my mother, that he cultivates with great love, tenacity, and dedication. His neighbors just shake their heads. So do his doctors. And his relatives. And my mother. But what I remember most about the first time my father’s health failed is that it rocked my world: suddenly my father was human and frail. Finite. His life would end one day. And after 33 years of self-sacrificial service to his company, he had to retire a year-and-a-half before his full 35 year retirement plan kicked in. The company insurance tried to weasel its way out of paying for his medical bills. All those years of dedication, all those years of commitment to an ideal and abstract business entity, appeared to evaporate into smoke. This devastated my father. Although he rarely speaks of it. And it put undo pressure on my mother, who works hard in her home-cleaning business to help support them both. But they chose forgiveness. And trusted God for His provision. My father has a sensitive spirit and heart. He exhibits masculine strength in working the fields, hunting, and mechanical skills, and when his heart is moved, he can be brought to tears. Yet I never saw him hug his mother or father. I only remember him shaking my grandmother's hand. But my father and mother taught me and my siblings to kiss them on their cheek. I’m not sure how or why this tradition began, but it was an anomaly to my father’s side of the family. And eventually my brother and sisters and I began to kiss my grandmother and grandfather. This made them uncomfortable, at first. But eventually they grew to expect it. Even desire it. And my little grandmother would just giggle after each kiss on her cheek.

When my father prays, everyone listens.

He is a simple man, with no pomp-and-circumstance. No frills in his language and communication skills. Much like his father, who prayed so quietly, as if his words were too sacred and intimate for anyone to hear but God. Maybe that’s one reason my father approaches public prayer with fear and trembling. When we gather to pray before a meal, if you have the honor of standing next to my father when he prays, and to hold his hand, you can feel him trembling as he speaks. He prays with a pure simplicity. And with deep, heartfelt compassion, awe, and love.

I shot the above photo as my father was welding a metal bar on his tractor. After he completed this task, he drove the tractor into the woods to work. At dusk, a spring storm swept over us with a gust of rain and lightning. My father and I were both caught in the middle of it. In the dim, evening light, he raced from the woods, parked the tractor in a flurry, closed the shed, and raced towards the house. I was constructing the final portion of a 100′ rock wall I’m building for my parents, and I had a goal to reach before ending the night. I continued working, shirt off, rushing to the finish line. As my father scurried to the house, under torrential rain and flashes of lightning, he was concerned for my safety and he shouted above the storm, “What are you doing? What are you trying to prove?” My response was a smile. And then I simply replied: “Prove? Nothing. What do you expect? I'm your son.” And we left it at that. I continued shoveling stones into a wheelbarrow, rain water pouring off my head and back. For I knew that my father has never allowed rain, lightning, snow, darkness, hardship, setback, pain, or suffering, stop him from completing the task at hand. I hope and pray I have just a portion of his fortitude to complete the work that I have yet to finish in this lifetime, for my generation. And for the glory of God. Thank you, Dad, for your labors of love, dedication, and a life well lived.

-----------------------------

FOR COMMENTS: Please scroll down to the lower comment box. I would love to hear your thoughts.

NOTE: This is an edited excerpt from the original article written on Tuesday, April 12, 2011. My father, Melvin Richard Bashore, died suddenly between 6:00 - 7:00 p.m. on Saturday, March 3, 2012. I was grieved to discover his body in his "sanctuary," his woods, where he died chopping firewood, and where had had worked and prayed countless hours to create a place of beauty for family and friends.

(#father #fathers #god #sons #son #memoir #family #generations #kevynbashore #kevynbashorejourney #death #eulogy )