Duffey's Parents:
John Sylvan & Edna May (Scott) Duffey
I was a fairly normal Hoosier Baby Boomer: Born in Hartford City on August 4, 1948. We moved often as dad changed careers. He was an original employee of the Overhead Door Company. I was in 1st grade in 1954 when he tried his hand at sheep farming. That lasted about year when he bought a photography business. We moved to Angola, then to Pleasant Lake. He finally found a career he loved after taking a civil service test. We moved to Cincinnati during his training for the Railway Postal Service. We moved to Auburn, Indiana until dad's commute to and from the train station became too much. We then moved to the site of General Anthony Wayne's base camp in 1958.
That was appropriate considering my parent's life before I met them. Mom was an Army Nurse. She then held a whole string of jobs from doing private duty to hospital administrator - all while battling many kinds of cancer for 25-years. Even when she was ill, she was always the boss. She used to joke, "When I met your father I was a Lieutenant, and and outranked him who was a Sergeant." She never expressed that opinion if he was within ear shot.
Dad was a soldier in the Pacific during WWII. The only clues I have of that time in history are in the cigar box he chose to protect them. Among the contents: Maybe two dozen pictures, mostly of skinny guys in a jungle, a few more of half naked native women who probably normally (un)dress that way, a couple dog tags, a bag of sea shells - all symbols of the time he spent on (or reaching) the Philippines. There were also two Purple Hearts, two Bronze Stars, and one Silver Star.
I realize now that puts my father in some kind of hero class, but he rarely talked about the time he served. Once in a while, he'd talk about contracting Malaria, and going into a coma. When he woke up in a hotel turned hospital in Brisbane Australia, he had nothing but a sheet which covered him. His friends thought he was going to die and sold all his belongings. Not only that, his entire unit had sailed off to another battle leaving him on shore. When he caught up with them, they had him listed as A.W.O.L.
If pushed harder, he would mention (offering few details) of rare moments that left the most painful of memories. The one I remember most was when his foxhole was hit by a Japanese artillery or mortar round. He was badly wounded but survived... an Australian General and Corporal with him were killed.
The only story he really enjoyed telling was one about General MacArthur's famous storming ashore on a freshly taken beach. It actually took four tries for him to complete the mission after the bullets quit flying! The first time, the landing craft got stuck too far from the beach to please the military photographers who were recording the event.
When it happened a second time, the General was carried from the amphibious landing craft ...on the shoulders of several enlisted men. After reaching the beach, military P-R guys realized having film of the great MacArthur riding the backs of G.I.'s would not look good back home. So he was carried back to the over used boat, taken off shore and brought in again. This time he stepped into the knee deep water and marched to shore.
Finished? Not quite. A half hour later, one of the Army photographers realized the General came ashore alone - heaven forbid. He must lead his men into battle! So, all the soldiers who were not wounded in the real taking of the beach were rounded up, loaded into landing craft - to follow their leader in (re)taking the shoreline.
After the war, Dad was one of the original employees of The Original Overhead Door Company. He then tried farming, but farming tried the entire family. He then bought a photography business which was bought out a couple years later.
He then went to work for the United States Postal Service. Finally, he had a job he loved working in an RPO (railway postal office.) Quite a few times, he would sneak me inside the mailcar for runs from Fort Wayne to Detroit, or Fort Wayne to Saint Louis on the old Wabash Canonball. Twice he even let me raise the hook to snatch the mail bag from it's moorings at stations too small for stops by passenger trains. The second time, I failed to lower the hook in time - and it slammed into a metal building built close to the rails. Even though it was July, there appeared to be a snow storm outside the speeding train as hundreds of envelopes flew in every direction. Again, that was the last time he let me do that.
I'm sure it bothered Dad a lot more when it came time for him to make his last catch on his final run. When American railroad passenger service soured and no longer made money, the rail companies shut down one line after another - until none was left. He never shared his tears, but I know Dad cried long and hard when the Canonball made it's last run......Chugging off into history, as well as the sunset - somewhere beyond Saint Louis......
My father was reassigned to a (land based) post office when his train was moth balled. When Dad moved to an office missing the "clickety-clak clickety-clack" sound, it was as though the government had broken his spirit - and cheated him after years of dedicated and often life threatening service. He just sort of "put in his time," until he could retire and depart as his former commander in the Pacific suggested.
Put the following in CONTEXT by finding my birthday on the DEATH page when you reach it.
Take a sneak peak if you like by clicking the arrow or text link above.
Like his father, my dad died suddenly of a heart attack when he was just 63-years old... exactly 16-years to the day after Grandpa Duffey died on my 16th birthday. Now.... it was on my 32nd birthday. It was a surprise - considering mom had fought cancer for a quarter century, and was never in great health from the time when I was in the third grade. She was a fighter. But that fight seemed to die, with the lowering of my father's casket into the ground. The 21-gun salute was like shots in my mother's will to live. She seemed to cry the last of her energy as the trumpeter played the unforgettable tune...
As the flag was folded over Sergeant Duffey's casket in its traditional triangle pattern, I wondered how soon we would also fold the Star Spangled Banner over another coffin - a coffin containing Lieutennant Duffey. Mom surprised most of us and managed to hang in there for another couple years.
But when doctors found yet another malignant growth, she cried - the FIRST time I had ever seen her shed tears over her own problems. Before, she cried often for my brother, my dad, I and others... but not for herself until this time. I held her in my arms, as she had done me so often so long ago. She cried that she did not have the fight to beat the killer disease another time. I tried to convince her otherwise. She and I both knew, as usual - she was probably right.
Even knowing in advance that death is coming closer and closer does not prepare anyone for that moment when the last breath is exhaled. No... one is either ready well in advance - or pushed from this life into the next eithout any clue of what's happening. There are NO lessons to learn when you hear the Grim Reaper knocking on the door.
In my mother's case, she was ready years and years before she could no longer stop the inevitable course of her deadly illness. When that day arrived, she knew it... but propped herself up in bed and joked like a bad Las Vegas comic to make everyone else think otherwise.
She motioned for me to come closer so she could say something to me that no one else would hear. I expected something profound: "Look Jon Scott, we both know this is the day - probably the hour. So give me a damn cigarette - it surely won't kill me." As mother nurse ordered, I turned off the oxygen and dug out her handbag to find that pack that seemed to give her so much joy over the years... every bit as much as she and dad like fishing for the big one they never caught.
She really seemed to enjoy that foul smelling Raleigh. When finished, she said she was sorry my brother Jim and his wife Pam would probably not arrive in time to say, "Good-bye," as though she was going on a fishing trip. I thought how the family was all there when Dad died, all except me - one of the few times in my life I was not near a telephone. She closed her eyes as if resting and took two labored deep breaths. And then, nothing. I called for a nurse. The nurse arrived and listened to Mom's chest with her stethoscope, and said what I knew: "She's gone." I kissed her, "Good-bye," and said, "I hope the big ones are biting."
As nearly as I can recall, living around Fort Wayne in 1963 and 1964 is when mom and dad started nudging me out of the nest, teaching me to fly - or at least giving me the space to learn how on my own.
Before going to heaven, my parents gave me a genuine love of many things.
Each one was a prescription for a good life.
Any questions?
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Jon Scott Duffey
President, DCI
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