Frank McElroy:
A Memorium

In April 1990 my relationship with death changed.

Death was a subject I’d analyzed from a dozen different angles over the years. Except for going quietly in one’s sleep, I had come to no great conclusions as to the best approach. A slow agonizing demise from a disease was a nightmare for the victim and the loved ones, but at least there was time for preparation and farewells. A violent, unexpected death was over in a second and probably best for the deceased, but the shock was numbing for those left behind. There were so many painful questions. What was his last thought? Why did it happen?

I had concluded that I fear the process of dying more than death itself. It looks painful. I don’t like pain.

Still, we are all dying.  At some level of our being, we all know that death is inevitable. There will come a time when each person reading these words will not be alive. But there are some people who know they are dying. Such was the case with my father. Skin cancer, throat cancer, and finally bone cancer all contrived to take his life.

He died April 18, 1990. Notice that I said he died. There are other ways to say it: passed away, gone, lost, going down the tubes, cashed in his chips, or bit the dust. My favorite is expired. Library cards and parking meters expire. People die. My father died. He was 62.

I remember standing by his bed in the hospital watching him breathe. It seemed like it was such hard work for his lungs to draw in each breath. The interval between breaths lengthened. A few seconds to ten seconds, to fifteen seconds, thirty seconds—finally, forever.

With his passing I was abruptly stripped of any illusions of my own immortality; no longer might I comfort myself with the thought that he was next in line ahead of me. That is one of a father’s silent functions—to stand as a shield between his son and infinity. With that protection gone, I was newly alone and vulnerable and, more so than ever, responsible for my life.

His name was Walter Frank McElroy. He went by Frank. Born and raised in Poseyville, Indiana, he played in the southern Indiana church-league softball and has been acclaimed as the best baseball pitcher ever fielded by the Poseyville Christian Church. He was also well known for the large and productive garden he planted each summer on his property at the southern end of the small farm town in Southwestern Indiana.

A member of the American Legion and the Poseyville Christian Church, he was also an ex officio member of the Poseyville-Robb Township Volunteer Fire Department and served for many years as Poseyville’s Town Marshal and as a Posey County Deputy Sheriff. He was well-known in law enforcement circles throughout the area. He also served for several years as the Street Commissioner in Poseyville. After moving to Florida he accepted a position with the Sarasota County School District, from which he retired after sixteen years with the district.

Frank served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War. His assigned units included the 5015 Ambulance Support Unit, Fifth Army Hospital in Tokyo, and the 101st Airborne Division. He was authorized to wear the United Nations Service Medal, the Korean Service Medal with two battle-zone service stars, and the Combat Infantryman’s Badge.

When he died, he was survived by his wife, a daughter, a son, his mother, a sister, and five grandchildren. His mother and sister have since died and eight great-grandchildren have been born.

He liked small towns. He hated big cities. When my family and I lived in Washington, D.C., he visited only once. I’ve often thought on family trips back to the nation’s capital that I would have gotten him back to the city to visit the Korean War Veteran’s Memorial had he lived to see it built. He didn’t. 

I remember a man who worked hard all his life and who retired not even three weeks before his death. He had always offered me what he could. Twenty years later and I still miss him.
 

My dad was never happier in Florida than when he and my mother moved to South Venice. Being out of the city and in the country where neighbors knew each other and spoke as they walked by was his idea of home. It wasn’t Indiana which he would always consider home, but he did feel at home in South Venice. He spent his time when not at work doing things around the house. In this picture he is building a skate board ramp for his grandson (my nephew) Scott. The ramp he built would stay there until well after he had died.