Your
Everyday,
“Ron” oF
the Mill
Kind of
Dad . . .
“The Altland family circa 1972. Despite the double-breasted suits, we had no ties to
organized crime. Just your average small town folks.”
by Barry Altland
My father’s name is Ronald Altland. Ron for short. Or Ronnie, as he
usually introduces himself. Can a seventy-six year old man still be called
Billy, Bobby, Donnie or Ronnie? The answer is, apparently so.
My Dad is a pretty average guy. Normal. Your everyday Joe. Run of the
mill, if you will. He has yet to cure any debilitating diseases. He has not
designed any earth-shattering inventions. He never held a job title with
a “C” in it. He has no million dollar endowment in his name. He never
even went to college.
What did he do? He got a high school diploma, joined the Navy for nineteen days, then drove a local delivery truck his entire career to support
a family of five—my mother the housewife, my older brother Brian, my
sister JoLynne and me.
You see? Pretty unremarkable. And that’s what makes his life so remarkable. In a society where we tend to define greatness in life based upon a
legacy of magnanimous proportions, all he did was what he was supposed
to do. Work. Live a good life. Take care of a family. Love God and love
his neighbor. Set a positive example for the generations that follow.
Oh yeah, he did that. I have been watching. My Dad may be short in
stature, but when it came to making sound decisions, the shadow he casts
is a long one. He has flat-out nailed it in a handful of key life areas. As I
watch, I learn:
The Least Ambitious?
In my father’s Dover, Pennsylvania, high school yearbook, the Memoscope,
from the year 1955, he was voted Least Ambitious in the Senior Superlatives pages. Wow, what different times those were. Who in the hell
thought that was a good idea? Labeling a young man in that way could
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WINTER GARDEN MAGAZINE
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JUNE 2015
have been pretty damaging. Not to my father, though.
I am not sure I know anybody who worked harder his entire life than my
Dad. I recall him getting out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to head to work, a cup
of coffee and a handful of cookies for dunking in his hand. My mother
would pack his lunch and give him a kiss goodbye each day while still in
her housecoat. He was often taking the overtime hours when they were
offered. He would come home smelling a bit like the road, a bit like diesel
fuel, and a bit like a warehouse. He would be exhausted, dozing off on the
couch after dinner with the newspaper still held in front of him. When
we would change the TV channel (before the days of the remote) from
news to afternoon cartoons, he would abruptly awake and exclaim, “I was
watching that.”
The man worked hard. Least ambitious? Maybe in the tired, overhyped
“American success story” definition way, sure. But to say he was averse to
getting his hands dirty to earn a living? Hardly. I learned my work ethic
from him. I, too, do not shy away from real work. For his example, I am
grateful.
He Was There
Despite my Dad’s work commitments, my parents did not miss much
when it came to supporting their offspring in our activities. They were
active Band Boosters when all three of us marched together in the same
uniform. They were in the stands at my swimming meets. I recall my father would sit a bit away from my Mother in the bleachers, since she had a
tendency to lose her mind cheering during our events. That embarrassed
him a bit. He’s not much for attention.
My Dad coached little league for the eight years that spanned my brother’s
and my time on the Twins team in Weigelstown BFB (That’s Baseball for