Remembering my Dad
My father, William H. (Bill) Satterlee, was 90 years old when
he died last week. [January 13, 2013] He started having “spells” and was
hospitalized just before Christmas in the southern Missouri town where one of
my brothers and his clan live. Dad’s body and mind started shutting down and he
never recovered.
I made a point of visiting him in the hospital that first
week. It turned out that I was able to share some of his last lucid hours. I
arrived in the early evening, shortly after the others had left for the day. I
helped him finish eating his supper. We enjoyed several hours of sharing
stories and catching up on news. The nurses made up a foldout chair and I
stayed with him for the night. I fed Dad breakfast in the morning. He told me
how to dilute his Cream of Wheat with milk just right so that I could hold it
up while he drank it through a straw.
Bill worked hard and played hard too. He was a quiet and
modest man, but his eyes could sparkle with mischief before pulling a surprise.
He worked on a railroad bridge crew before going to prison in Fort Leavenworth
during World War II as a conscientious objector.
