29 August 1919

Undated photo of my father, perhaps from the 1950s.

My father, Kermit Edison, was born 100 years ago today. Born in August, he also died in August, just shy of his 60th birthday.

There’s a lot I don’t know about my father. He was not a talker or a sharer of feelings, at least not with me. And, there are things I know that aren’t my stories to tell. Still, in the Venn-diagram circle of “things I know” and “things mine to tell,” there’s an amazing story.

A third generation immigrant, and second child in a family of seven, dad’s first language was Norwegian. He didn’t need English until he started grade school. He was on his own at 14, working full time as a cheese maker and completing high school by correspondence. Because of hearing loss he was 4F, so dad served stateside during WWII. The GI Bill allowed dad to go to mortuary school. He became a leader in the field, one of the pioneers bringing together funeral directors, clergy, physicians, nurses, and licensed practical nurses to discuss death and dying.

Starting out in business, dad made ends meet by laying carpet and driving ambulance. He was up on the ladder painting the three-story Victorian funeral home. He put down asphalt for the parking lot. He restored a hunk of rust back into an operational 1926 Model T Ford.

For 10 years, dad and mom vacationed by building the home they intended for retirement. They purchased the one-room school house of his youth, no longer structurally sound, saving the usable brick and lumber. They built-out the basement first, to have a livable place to stay while working on the rest of the house. Dad did everything except for the electrical and plumbing work, including digging the basement. He went to the library to get a book on how to lay bricks. When I expressed amazement over this, he said, “Well, I started in the back.”

Dad loved snow. With a coverall over his shirt and tie, he plowed the funeral home parking lot with a tractor outfitted with a scoop. He’d then use his heavy-duty snowblower to clear sidewalks around the entire block. He was a prized neighbor.

Because pride was considered the second-deadliest of sins–sloth being #1–I don’t remember getting a direct compliment from dad. When mom and dad discussed whether I should go to college or vocational school, I did overhear him say, “Well, Susie’s kind of bright, and we live so close [to the University of Wisconsin-Madison]; I think she should have a chance to try it.”

When it came to work, especially outside work, gender- and age-expectations let me off  much easier than my older brother, Keith. One hot summer day, I came home to find dad and Keith resurfacing the parking lot. “Have you had lunch?” I asked. “No, it’s just been work-work-work,” Keith replied. Aghast, I went in and made sandwiches, lots of sandwiches, for them. Some 48-years later, Keith told me the rest of the story. Turns out Keith was joking. When I came home, they had just gotten back to work after a long lunch break. When dad saw me coming out with sandwiches, he said to Keith, “Don’t say a word. We’re going to eat. it. all.”

Here’s to you, Dad.

—Sue Edison-Swift, 8/29/2019