Dupont and Sonny

Some afterthoughts ....Today is 12/18/95. I finished putting the albums together on Sunday, worrying if I’d get then done in time for Christmas. I did. Now that I’ve got the chance to read things over, I’m thinking that some things sound dumb, and I should have included other things. It’s too much work to change anything, but I can add things.

I mentioned that my dad worked for DuPont for over forty years. World War 1 was on, and Dad wanted to earn big money so he lied his age and got hired. Washburn was a boomtown of sorts because the plant manufactured explosives. Many years later I worked at the plant during a few summers. Sometimes I’d be on a crew where some of the workers didn’t know who I was. Dad was a foreman at that time and they’d complain about him because he wanted the work done by the book. He respected the danger of working with explosives and didn’t allow any shortcuts. After the explosion around 1950 when six men were killed, (the one Grandpa John survived) my dad was the foreman those guys wanted to work for.

I worked at the plant for college money at first and for family income later on. Workers were required to buy steel toed shoes. Since I wanted to avoid the cost, my dad would search around the plant for a discarded pair. Once I got a pair where one shoe had a loose sole. I used masking tape to hold it together, adding new tape every few days. The company was strict on safety and one day called for a shoe check. All the workers stood in line and were told to put one foot out. I put the good foot out, thinking I’d surely get caught as the inspection continued. The foreman yelled out, “Now stick your other foot out.” I pulled my good foot back and then quickly stuck it out again. I passed and saved myself a few bucks.

Also I want to mention that my parents had five sons. The oldest was a junior and was called Sonny. I think he was six years old when he died of cancer in 1925. Doctors wanted to experiment with radium, a new drug at the time. My dad said he didn’t want him to be used for a guinea pig. He was very ill and just before Christmas doctors told my parents to take him for the holidays because he wouldn’t live long. When he took a turn for the worse, my mother ran to a neighbor’s to call for help. He died while she was gone. My dad said at the moment of his death, a crucifix fell from a far wall, landing in front of him breaking in two. I have the crucifix and don’t know what to make of the story. His death occurred on December 21. Just this time of year. Sonny’s Christmas present was to be a pedal car that my parents could ill afford. I think they saved the car for Ken who was a baby at the time.

Did my dad clasp Sonny’s body close to his chest, with its limp arms dangling, its cold fingers tracing patterns in the linoleum and run to the far wall? Did he reach up, one eye on his dead son, one on the crucifix, grab it, throw it to the floor, pick up the two pieces, run back to the stove, and stand quietly there, waiting for his wife’s return to tell her that her son had died seconds before the crucifix flew across the room?

Or did he shove the butter dish aside, place the silent bundle on the kitchen table like a loaf of bread, run for the crucifix, grab the body on his return to the stove, hurrying to arrive before my mother returned from her five minute rescue call?

Or did the old frame house shift suddenly in the bitter cold Wisconsin night, disengaging the nail, propelling the crucifix across the room?